Mad Season
by themiscyra
Summary: Gotham has always destroyed lives in order to achieve Her own ends. Now however, She's looking to set things 'right'. How will things develop when She sets up a woman with a twisted past to come to Her aid?
1. Disclaimer

**Disclaimer:** This is a self-insertion fanfic of the worst kind. That is, it is based of an obscured universe where both myself and my boyfriend of 3 years (this February) are pulled into a pretty twisted Gotham lifestyle. The overall story is dark, though not really dismal. It began on August 31st, 2004, and is going to be over 150k words upon completion (and all but save a couple or so pages are finished). That's about 260 pages, single spaced, Times New Roman font. What I'm getting at is that this fic is in it for the long haul—if you are too, then that's swell.

This fic takes place about 9 years after Daniel has left Nicole, and a bit of background may be necessary here: the two met in 7th grade, and forged a strong bond that became an even stronger romance, and lasted well into their first years at college. Around this time, Daniel seems to vanish into thin air, without giving Nicole any warning—the young woman is distraught, crushed beyond reckoning. They meet again in Gotham, and Nicole eventually realizes what could have drawn the boy she loved away form her: a city that not only offered him a chance to be one of the heroes he loved as a child, but that also set Her vice grips around him, refusing to let him leave.

After uncovering Bruce Wayne's secret, Nicole takes up a life of vigilantism—seemingly protected and provided for by Gotham Herself. While not the more cataclysmic event on the horizon, it seems that things are somehow changing in Gotham, which has gone relatively unchanged for as long as there has been a Batman (Gotham is a place that exists if She chooses to grant you entrance, and sets Her hooks in you—separate from the reality we know, represented only in dreams). Joker and Harley Quinn have disappeared, but there is a different feel to it now: that this really could be the last of the showdowns.

Gotham is tired. Gotham wants to heal, which means a conclusion to the ongoing epic between the Joker and the Batman. Nicole begins to realize that she a pawn in a much bigger game: an end-game. But does that matter? Even if a pawn knows that she is a pawn, does that change her role?

**Rating**: Mature themes and strong language.

**Song Lyrics:** There is an incorporation of song lyrics in many aspects of this fanfiction. Lyrics will be attributed to the artist or band that created them, and are not my own work. Of course, Gotham, as well as the standard Batverse characters are not my own work either. I own only Nicole and Daniel, as well as perhaps the general plot idea.

**Batverse Characters:**  
-Batman  
-Huntress  
-Oracle  
-Alfred  
-Bane  
-Joker  
-Harley Quinn  
-Scarecrow  
-Catwoman


	2. Mad Season

**Mad Season; Matchbox Twenty**

I feel stupid, but I know it won't last for long.  
I've been guessing, and I could've been guessing wrong.  
**You don't know me now,**  
**I kinda thought that you should somehow…**  
_Does that whole mad season got ya down? _

I feel stupid, but it's something that comes and goes .  
**I've been changing, think it's funny how now one knows.**  
**We don't talk about, _the little things that we do without._**  
When that whole mad season comes around

_So why you gotta stand there, looking like the answer now?_  
It seems to me you'd come around,  
**I need you now.**  
Do you think you can cope?  
**You figured me out: I'm lost and I'm hopeless.  
**Bleeding and broken, though I've never spoken  
_I come undone—in this mad season._

I feel stupid, but I think I been catching on.  
**I feel ugly, but I know I still turn you on.**  
_You seem colder now, torn apart, angry, turned around  
Will that whole mad season knock you down?_

In this mad season  
There's been a mad season  
**_Been a mad season…_**


	3. Coincidence Isn't the Word

What's it been, almost a decade?  
It still smarts like it was four minutes ago.  
We only influenced each other totally,  
We only bruised each other even more so .  
Alanis Morissette

**#.01**

The word is dumbfounded.

I stood there, with my jaw hanging open, not caring who could be watching—things very suddenly got an impossible feeling; the world went and bent itself out of shape all at once. While the jerk of the proverbial rug from beneath my feet should have floored me, and it (figuratively) did, I watched as he got up and left the eatery, unable to believe what I had just seen, and was still witnessing.

I watched, paralyzed to my spot, as the man I had spent nearly a decade of my life thinking about constantly, imagining, looking for—I was watching him walk away from me. For nine years I had planned and imagined and daydreamed the day that I met him again (if I did), but now all I could do was let him walk away again, this time in the literal sense.

Someone bumped into me, and it broke whatever spell I was under.

It was a good thing I paid when I got my food, because I spared no time hurtling out of that street-side restaurant. I kept thinking, _What if you're wrong? It can't be him! Or even worse, what if you're right? What if he just stares at you and says he doesn't know who you are?_ Impossible. You can't just erase eight years of your life like it never happened, right?

I hoped not.

Then it happened, we were out on the sidewalk and it was a muggy, gray day in New York. It happened, my hand on his arm, which I found surprisingly more muscled than from the nine years (or eight years and 11 months) since I saw him last. Blue eyes, the same shade as I remember, turned to me, questioning.

_Oh my God. I did._

_I found him._

When the recognition dawned in his eyes (a few seconds too late for my tastes, really) I could have sobbed. All these years, and I didn't know what to say, and the way his face changed—the guilt—I realized that he remembered.

"Dan?"

"Yeah, it's me Nicole."

People where shoving past us, but we didn't move.

What do you say?

What do you say to the boy who is now a man, who went off to college a few states away, visited once, and then broke off all contact? The boy who wasn't even registered as a student any more when you went to look for him, and somehow his parents had even left without a trace.

What do you say?

"We should talk."

"Should we?" I must have looked at him incredulously when I said it, because he had the decency to look ashamed of himself. People just kept on barreling past, a few with indignant comments about stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

"You uh, you want to go out to eat tonight? Or just for drinks, whatever—I'll pay and all." And it looked like he honestly wanted to talk. This wasn't just to humor me or to help his guilt go down smoother.

"Yeah, sure."

"What's your number?" When I gave him a look that very, very clearly said that I didn't expect him to call (how the hell could I, really?) he became flustered, and dug through his jeans for a pen, staring at the ground. He found one, and when I told him he wrote it on his hand: like a high school kid or something. "And just so, just so you know I'm not lying about this, my number is—" He gave me the pen, and in turn I wrote down his number on my hand.

Like a high school kid.

The world shifted under my feet, but I guess I didn't feel it at the time.

- - -

Actually, I wasn't so surprised when he called. Dan had been sincere about getting together to talk, that was pretty obvious. When the phone rang, I had known it would be him—but this could also be by process of elimination: the other options were my mother or my sister (who was in college for a Master's in medicine, pharmaceuticals).

When I picked up, he sounded relieved (he also, alternatively, sounded well-rehearsed). Dan asked if he could pick me up and I declined, which may have deflated him a bit. There was something I liked about reserving my anonymity (my phone number was unlisted as well). I felt like it gave me a sort of leverage: if need be, I could do to him what he had done to me almost nine years ago.

Later I met him at some kind of restaurant that wasn't so fancy, but was well above local competitors. When I realized it was a Mexican restaurant, I could have laughed. It would have been a sad laugh though (Daniel seemed to have remembered my fondness of Mexican food) so I didn't. He was dressed in darker jeans than before, which were tight but not too tight, and a simple white collared shirt. It registered to me that this man was _very_ good looking.

Which posed the question: was he seeing someone now? What love of his life stole him away from me? It would be absurd for him to be single. Then again, why should it matter? After all, you don't start a relationship with someone who turned their back and walked out on you in the most demeaning way possible—breaking all contact without so much as a good-bye, much less an explanation after being together for a large part of your lives at the time.

I was also wearing jeans, because even for a March day it was pretty cold. I also had on a collared shirt, a slate blue color, and my jacket—a leather coat that fell to my knees. Our food came, and we managed somewhat strained pointless chatter until then— and trust me, pointless chatter is at once extremely difficult and yet the only thing you're capable of with someone who left you (on a very sour note) a decade earlier.

The food diminished, and our drinks were replenished. I had learned that Daniel now did statistics for some company or another, and was paid handsomely for it. Turned out, show biz and filming didn't work out for him. I wouldn't say that I was happy about it, but I wasn't particularly surprised. Then again, I'm not surprised very much anymore, by anything. The one great shock of my life had pretty much overshadowed everything else.

Almost as an unspoken rule, we acted as if our meeting had not been so _improbable_, nor did we acknowledge that it should be much more _awkward_ than we wanted to play it off as. When we weren't acting like not-so-close long term friends, we were pretending to be complete strangers—in a way we were—just going through the standard first-date motions.

"So, are you seeing anyone?" It was a bold question that could have been interpreted a little heavier than I may have liked. With two margaritas in me, I didn't much care.

"No, are you?" He wasn't? Odd.

"No. Not for a long time." I crossed very close to the line of 'uncomfortable things to say'. I guess the way I looked at him didn't help much either: _of course not, and you should know._

"Oh. I don't see why, you're beautiful." Daniel smiled and I had the feeling he'd have liked to reach across the table and brush my cheek with the back of his fingers. He even leaned forward, and I could see it in the way his shoulders moved—but then he caught himself early enough to pass it off as just shifting in his chair. This only made it more obvious though: I noted that about him, he wasn't a fidgety guy now. All the excess energy I remember him as having before was refined, controlled.

"So, you're not gay now or anything?"

"_What?_" He did sounded appalled, some of that old energy bubbling up.

"Well, you said you aren't seeing anyone, which I suppose doesn't mean you _are_ gay or anything, but—well, you look good. Not to lean on your own previous comment, but you look really good." It was more than I had said at one time the whole night.

Daniel laughed. "No, I'm not gay. I'm not much of anything lately."

"How long is lately?" There I went, bold again.

"About nine years." Daniel was suddenly very serious, and he leaned across the table, closer to me. "Really Nicole, I… there was a reason." I could see that. It wasn't a pretty one either, not one I'd like (as if I'd _like_ any of them). How much had he drank? He didn't want to tell me this.

He'd regret it if he did.

Not that I cared much at the moment. I was very, very angry.

I'm angry pretty often, really.

So I decided just to stare at him, without so much as arching an eyebrow.

"I would never have, I should never have, there's no excuse I know. I can't imagine what it was like for you."

"No, I'm sure you can't."

The truth is I wasn't even so curious about the reason. I guess I wouldn't have stopped him from telling me, but I didn't need to know what in the world was more important that I ever was.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you out here like this, this was stupid, I'm sorry-" Daniel was now screwing up his words, every so often one syllable would be the tiniest bit slurred—he leaned back, and now I could see how anxious he really was. He started to stand, realized that the check wasn't on the table yet, and looked around frantically for our waitress.

"Sit down." He did. Now, despite all the years, and despite whatever could pull him away from me, I saw the boy I knew. His eyes were wide like they used to get, and he was nervous.

"Look. I don't know what could be so earth shattering that you dropped me like a bag of bricks, and I don't want to know. You don't have to explain, and even if you do, it's not going to change the fact that you grew up with me and then walked out."

"Okay." Admitting defeat. Daniel caught the waitress's eye, and called her over. In a few minutes (of silence) the check was brought.

"I'll pay for my drinks," I offered, but I received a completely hurt look –_ at least let me do this,_ it said. I didn't offer again. When Daniel was done with the bill, he took out a checkbook. I was confused for a moment, and it only got worse when he handed me the check he had been writing.

It was for three thousand dollars.

"What's this supposed to be?"

"Your family did so much for me, fed me all the time and everything-"

"No."

"C'mon! You know it's true!" He was almost pleading with me.

"No."

"C'mon… take it, please?" Definitely pleading now.

"No, I am not taking it, and if I do take it, I'll never cash it." Of course this made him miserable.

_No, I won't let you buy your freedom from guilt,_ I thought. Maybe I saw it as the only way I could really bind him to me: to keep him in debt to me. A bitch tactic, maybe. It would have been kinder to just take his money.

It's a habit that dies hard I suppose.

(Not accepting people's money, but more just being a bitch.)

We were out of the restaurant, standing together, fishing for goodbyes.

"Let me pay for your cab?" Daniel looked down at me, the person I knew.

"I'm going to walk, actually."

"You live near here?" He sounded hopeful, or maybe startled? He didn't like hearing the news, maybe, but at the same time I had a feeling he did.

"No, but it's all right out. Weather is okay, at least."

"Can I walk you then? I mean, this is-" And for some reason, the word got caught up inside him, as if he wasn't sure if it was safe to say around me. Strange. "Gotham. This is Gotham."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"What is it about this place?" I knew I'd have to elaborate. How could I possibly expect Daniel to know what I meant? But the more I thought about it, the more elusive the concept became. I couldn't put my finger on it, exactly.

"Uh, Gotham?" He was uncomfortable, jittery.

"Well, yeah. It's like…"

"Yeah, I know. You don't have to explain. Things seem surreal here, don't they?" His eyes wandered up at the skyscrapers and then back down to me. "It's like, everything is too dramatic or too _real_ to _be_ real. The exaggeration of everything, the violence and the city itself, it's shoved into your face, too close to see the big picture in things."

I was a little taken aback. So he had spent some time thinking about it then. It sounded accurate enough too—the sensation of total _surrealism_ trapeze-ing around, pretending to be reality, that's what this was.

"How long have you been here?" _Or, in other words, is this the place that you ran to when you left me? Is this the place that kept you when I couldn't?_

"Close to nine years."

"The whole time then?"

"Yeah. Mostly." Daniel ran his hand through his hair, looking guilty. It didn't make me feel better (that he was feeling guilt) but it sure as hell didn't make me feel worse.

"So, is that it? This place. This place, the way everything is too gaudy and too flashy, but at the same time too real. _This_ is what was a better home than, than, than somewhere with _me?_" I was becoming emotional, melodramatic, which I'm pretty sure was the alcohol talking (not that what I was saying was something I didn't feel every day of my life).

Daniel stepped close to me, as if he could console me by holding me, or something. Immediately I shut down. I pulled away, looked at the sidewalk.

"Nicole, you don't know-"

"You're right. And I told you that I don't want you to tell me. I'm just going to go, okay?" I made sure not to look at him. He hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether or not to offer his hand in a good-bye shake. After a second or too of fumbling around, he settled has hands in his pockets.

"I don't want you to walk alone, please let me call you a cab?" I didn't want to worry him, and being a total Ice Queen wouldn't make the situation any better.

"Well, okay. Thank you." Daniel was visibly allayed, and rushed to hail a cab. It wasn't very long before the yellow car pulled up, and he paid the driver. I got in, and he hovered over the door he held open for me.

"I'll call you?" Clearly he was expecting rejection.

"That'd be nice, actually." I forced out a smile that I had to hope didn't _look_ forced. Either way, Daniel reminded me of a puppy again, overjoyed.

"Really? Yeah, okay, I will, soon, I promise."

"Goodnight Daniel."

"Oh, night Nicole."

The door closed, and I directed the cab driver.


	4. An Invitation

There's a light in your eyes that I used to see,  
There's a place in your heart where I used to be.  
Was I wrong to assume that you were waiting for me?  
There's a light in your eyes,  
Did you leave that light burning for me?  
Blessid Union of Souls

**#.02**

And he did call soon. In fact, the next day he called. It was a Sunday, so I was home, working on some storyline or another. We talked for a while, and it went decent, as those things go. I actively steered the discussion away from where I lived. I honestly couldn't tell say why. It wasn't like I lived in a particularly shitty apartment or even one of the worse parts of Gotham (even though just about every part of Gotham is a 'worse' part).

In the end, I had to divulge some information about myself: I told him that for two years I had spent time in Africa, administering care and aid to children and adults in impoverished communities. At relatively brief intervals I taught English and worked in hospitals for children with the AIDS virus. Daniel was impressed with that, sort of awed into silence. I had joked lightly about it back when we were both teenagers, but when he had disappeared I saw no reason not to throw myself into a foreign country with foreign people: I could lose myself that way.

I told him that I got into college easily enough, scholarship and all. I majored in English Literature and Women's Studies. I went far enough in my degree to where I could teach in the spectrum of pre-K to middle school grades. In that time I also became a police officer, and rose decently enough there. He made comments from time to time about my dabbling in everything. I did. I admitted that. But there were also a lot of things I followed through with—it wasn't just touch and go.

What I didn't tell him was that for nine years I had been exercising and practicing martial arts religiously. What I didn't tell him was that when he disappeared, I took it to heart that the only person I could ever, ever count on was myself—so I trained like a madwoman. What I didn't tell him was that at one point I thought I might have been in love again, with another man, and I let myself become lax on the rigorous physical activity.

What I didn't tell him was that when I was gang-raped and the man I thought I might just be able to love wasn't there to protect me, I went even more off the deep-end than when Daniel left. I didn't tell him that I killed a man, and was beaten so badly that I couldn't walk for a couple months. I didn't tell him that I would be dead if it wasn't for the innocent passerby that the two men decided was more important to silence, because they figured I _would_ die before anyone could find me. I didn't tell him that I because some older man happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, I'm still alive.

Before that point I had been considering quitting the force. I had decided to let my wounds heal, and that Daniel leaving me shouldn't make me enjoy putting my life on the line, and that just because I had felt so helpless and alone, it didn't mean I had to spend the rest of my life saving others. The truth was, I didn't do any running around putting-the-bad-guys in jail to help people. I didn't feed starving Ethiopian children for the good of the world. I did it because it made me feel strong, and it made me feel in control.

Before that incident, I had recognized how selfish it all was, decided I was doing these things for the wrong reason, and wanted out. After the incident? I fought with a vengeance that scared people. I became a daughter of Nemesis.

When the two men were brought into custody for multiple accounts of murder, rape, and assault, someone made sure that there were 'accidents' in the cells. The government appointed lawyers didn't make a peep. Maybe money exchanged hands. I don't know—all I know is that the two men 'committed suicide' before the date of their trial. Someone was looking out for me within the force I suppose. I was grateful. I still could barely walk at the time.

When I regained my strength I dove back into martial arts and physical perfection with a fury. Barely weighing 120 pounds, I learned how to take down two or three men at double my weight. Sure, I was called a ball-buster, or people snickered 'Amazon' when they didn't think I could hear. There were nasty jokes about my small stature and how, well, _efficient_ I was. All the cute little titles men assign to women they fear, I received. All the cute little titles women assign to women that men fear, I received. But in the end? In the end, I was the one you wanted on call with you.

I was the one who went first, always.  
And then? Then there were the occult studies, pretty much throughout the whole time.  
I guess there are quite a few things that I didn't tell Daniel.

I did tell him that right now I was busy doing an odd assortment of things. I made speeches for politicians at large sums of money, I wrote articles for newspapers, or even did a bit of story writing from time to time—though my instinct for that had dried up when he left me. Primarily though, I dealt in real estate—I owned seven houses, five of them on waterfront property. He asked me where I acquired the money. I told him he'd be surprised how much one could make when all you had to worry about was yourself. Daniel didn't push the subject further.

The truth was my father died shortly after Daniel left me, mainly from booze. My mother remarried within two years after that, and then my step-father died from some freak accident—some household product malfunctioning or something—and the company that sold these products didn't want to have to do a recall. Being a big label, they paid our family quite a lot of money. My step-father had also owned three houses aside from the one my mother was living in and a great deal of profitable stock, and left these to my mother in his will (he didn't have any children, and I think it was more from the fact that he really didn't have anyone else to leave it to).

Not knowing anything about real estate, my mother passed the houses on to me, and they were all in pretty great shape—each one would bring in half a million dollars, easily. I sold one, and used the money from that to buy two more houses, which I sold three years later for almost triple what I bought them for.

So, in all? I held a small fortune in my bank account, and a much, much larger fortune in real estate. I didn't tell him that though. I didn't even think about the money much. Sitting in a not-so-big apartment, making decent earnings in odds and ends jobs, I don't even touch the growing digits of my bank account, except to add more from time to time, when I thought the time was right to sell another house.

My mother was subsisting off of the money left to her by my step-father, and my sister was too. Even they weren't aware of how rich I was. I didn't tell them. It just wasn't ever something I would think to, much less want to, bring up. They were well off, could buy just about anything they wanted, within reason, so I never saw a reason.

I lived pretty cheap, and saved everything. I don't even know what to do with any of the money I have. It's good to know it's there of course, but I pretty much don't care either way. I was always the natural hoarder, and didn't have much of a taste for lavish things—or possibly I kept myself in some kind of minimal environment because my subconscious saw it as personal punishment for 'losing' Daniel.

The phone call ended with Daniel asking me if I'd like to come over Wednesday evening. He had off Thursday he said; he wanted to know if that would be all right. Since I didn't necessarily work regular hours, and didn't have an office job, I accepted. Daniel told me where he lived, and I wrote it down.

After I hung up, I turned on the television. I didn't watch it much, and I never really had. Still, I tried to at least follow the news.

_"In our latest story tonight, the Batman has once again apprehended a wanted criminal,  
where Gotham's police department has failed. While a few officers find this outraging,  
Jim Gordon as usual has defended this city's vigilante…"_

I stood frozen for a second, feeling that I had just witnessed something very, very important. There was something _here_ right in front of my _face_ and I wasn't seeing it. I felt like this every time I heard something about the Batman. My brain clicked and cranked away, trying to figure out what was wrong with the picture, what didn't belong, or what was missing. Long after the reporter had switched stories, I kept standing there, brow furrowed, wishing I could make this all connect, wishing I could just step back from the situation and _see_. I remembered what Daniel had said the night before, about the city being so in-your-face that you _couldn't_ stand back and look at the big picture.

A chill ran down my spine, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood. Then, deciding that I was a big girl now, and that I knew enough about the _bizarre_ that this shouldn't phase me, I went back to my computer, and made some phone calls to possible clients.

- - -

It was Wednesday, around six forty-five, when I realized there was a rather large accident up ahead, and the cab wasn't going to be getting anywhere anytime soon. The driver was cursing profusely, and I decided that I didn't need the aggravation, paid for the distance he had taken me, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. From where I was, I figured I could get to Daniel's apartment within thirty minutes, if I walked fast enough.

And I did walk fast. I walked fast and pretended not to see the ugliness of the city. I acted like I didn't see the starving man on the corner, or the group of thugs that weren't doing anything illegal for the time being, but were suspicious enough. Stuff like a child crying and its mother ignoring it. I didn't look, because I knew what that would mean.

Acknowledging it meant having the choice to fight it.  
And having the choice, always, always, always meant choosing to fight.

I had sworn to myself to never get involved in the force again. Not after what happened.

I got to the apartment around five minutes after, and prided myself in making good time. Daniel smiled widely as I opened the door, and took my coat. Before I knew it, his hands were pressed lightly to my cheeks. "You look flushed—is it that cold outside?" And then checking his impulses (and clearly kicking himself inwardly) he pulled his hands away.

Well, shit. If I wasn't flushing _before_, then I certainly was _now._

"No, it's not too bad. I just had to walk about fifteen or so blocks. There was a real bad car accident."

"Oh." His eyes lit with concern. "You didn't get hassled or anything, did you?" I smiled, despite myself.

"No." I let my eyes wander around the room, and felt my breath slip away. This was definitely one of the more spacious apartments, and it really was well put-together. It was obvious that Daniel took a lot of pride in having such a pleasant, open home. The furniture was all simple, elegant. I don't use that term much, but I couldn't think of much of another way to put it. I always worried just about whether something did its job—functionality concerned me, whereas the furniture in this room (and I assumed the rest of the house) was functional _and_ aesthetic. "Leave it to a Libra," I whispered under my breath, barely aware that I had spoken.

"So, you like it?" He was eager, pleased with himself. Then again, he had every right to be. The walls were adorned with bookshelves, and glass cabinets with certain art pieces displayed, along with signed sports pictures, and other appropriate things. There were also a few framed pictures, black and white photography, of different places in Gotham.

The furniture was mostly an off-white, cream color that matched the walls, and the wood legs of chairs, or all the wood that I could see for that matter, was a rich, dark color. The one standing wooden cabinet was tall, made out of that same (or similar to where I couldn't notice a difference) dark wood, with glass panels. Inside there glass shelves, holding pictures of his family, and other photos. The backing of the cabinet was stained glass.

"Yeah, how could I not?" I bee-lined towards the standing cabinet. Daniel was happy to follow. I was peering in at the pictures, wondering how anybody could get such impossible angles (it looked to me like you'd have to be hanging _upside down_ over very large buildings for some of these) when he flicked a light switch that turned off the main lights, and then another that illuminated the cabinet. I caught my breath: the lighting came from behind the stained glass, and the effect was really magnificent. "Wow."

Then my eyes traveled, and I saw some pictures that made me feel awkward because I didn't know how I should feel: pictures from our proms, from our homecomings. There were pictures of fancy events, and then there were a few pictures (the ones that made me _really_ unsure how to feel) of us just goofing around.

"You kept all these pictures?" Daniel turned the main lights back on, and then turned the cabinet lights off.

"Yeah, I did. And I didn't just like put them up before you came or something-"

"I didn't think you did."

"Oh. Yeah, I kept them. I kept them." He paused for a moment, and then smoothed down his shirt, which didn't need smoothing down. Thunder rumbled outside, and then there was a flash of lightning. Both our eyes turned towards the balcony window, and saw the rain start pummeling down. The sound of it was comforting, and I was glad not to have been caught out in the downpour. My attention drawn to the floor-to-ceiling window drifted down, to the table in front of it. It was set for two, and I don't know how I missed it at first. There were candles and flowers and wine glasses.

"I was hoping you wanted to eat here. I, um, I'm not a great cook or anything. If you want to go somewhere after dinner, that's fine." His eyes turned back to the rain. "But if you'd rather not have to swim, we can stay here and watch a movie or something." It was hard not to smile. A flicker of curiosity that I had long since tried to suppress emerged again, for the millionth time in the past week. _If he really does care, then why did he leave?_ If Daniel hadn't seriously dated since he left, _what was the reason?_

"Staying here for a movie doesn't sound so bad."

"Cool. Here, have a seat." Daniel guided me over to the table, pulling a chair for me. "I'll be back in a second." He walked in the kitchen, through an open archway. When he came back he had two plates of pasta, which smelled particularly wonderful. He set them down, and then went back to the kitchen again. When he came back he had a bottle of white wine. I just sat in amazement. The pasta was in a creamy white sauce, with shrimps and what I assumed were pieces of crabmeat.

"You did _all_ of this?" I had to actively keep my jaw from hanging open. The smell of it was going straight to my stomach, and I realized how long it had been since I had eaten any really good Italian food.

"Yeah. I wanted it to be special." Daniel smiled, poured some wine into my glass, then his. Seating himself, he took the moment to admire is work. We ate with pleasant conversation, and the food was absolutely delicious. It made me think—how much about Daniel didn't I know? After all, nine years was a long time. When we were finished, Daniel refilled our glasses, and we relocated to the couch.

"I have a lot of movies—what kind of genre would you prefer?" Daniel stood, and walked over to two rotating DVD holders. I was taking off my heels; the sandals were uncomfortable and hurting my feet.

"I don't care, your choice." His brow furrowed lightly, but then he smiled. We used to argue about who had to choose what to watch.

"All right. Does a B-horror flick sound good?"

"Of course." We settled in, after a brief period of 'how-close-should-we-sit'. In the end, I guess we sat pretty close considering the circumstances. The sides of our bodies were touching. I recognized the movie early on—we had seen it with each other over a decade ago. It had been a good film, better than a lot we had seen in the theaters. We laughed at the same parts we had the first time around (more or less). Towards the end we just ended up turning off the movie and talking.

"So, why did you quit the force? Or were you just interested in fighting crime here in Gotham? You'd never be out of a job, that's for sure." I blinked, collected myself, and answered.

"I really can't tell you what drew me to Gotham, or at least, I can't put it into words. I had quit law enforcement before I knew I was coming here, I wanted to spend more time writing and I was interested in pursuing a teaching career." A decent amount of that was lies; pretty much everything except for not knowing why I was here.

"Ah, cool. Teaching though? You came to Gotham to _teach?_" Daniel stopped for a second, thought that over, and then shrugged slightly. "Well, I guess that goes the same way as crime-fighting: you'll never be out of a job. What were you planning on teaching?"

"English for junior high kids, or elementary school grades."

"Wow. I never though you'd be on to work with children," Daniel said: good-natured.

"Yeah. I suppose not. I don't really know what I'm doing at any given moment anymore, so it doesn't matter much."

"Ah." He didn't like what I had said. Probably because it basically shot down to 'you left me and I don't know what the fuck to do with myself anymore'. It let him know that I was relatively unstable, and was most probably a complete basket case. "Do you have a degree for teaching? I mean, you probably wouldn't even need on to teach elementary kids or junior high kids, not in _this_ city."

"Yeah. I can pretty much teach anywhere from first grade to eighth, no questions asked. I need maybe two more years of college to be able to teach high-school level." I looked back, out the large sliding glass door behind the table we had eaten at. My eyes unfixed, staring at nothing but the rain. I was so comfortable in there, probably too much so for my own good. "Man, it's still raining like crazy. It's getting late, too. I should be going." I stood up and stretched, and Daniel stood beside me. But, instead of reaching for my sandals, I turned and walked over to the glass door, looking out at the rain. _The city's crying,_ I thought. _She's crying and she's trying to wash away all the hurt._

_Trying to drown all this insects, all these parasites that pick at her and suck her blood, and get fat off of her. Understandable._ I could picture it too. All the swollen tick mob bosses and the gangs of everyday murderers and rapists (and here in Gotham, I guess it was more _every-minute_ than everyday) that multiplied like fleas. But, She was still beautiful. With all the scabs and scars and pocket-marks—Gotham was unerringly gorgeous.

That was my preliminary glance at just how _alive_ this city was. More alive than any other city I'd ever been in. Daniel's voice startled me, right behind me.

"Hey, there's a party I'm going to this Saturday. There won't be very many people or anything. It's at the Wayne Manor, actually. If you want to go with me…" Another tiny chill on my part, but I couldn't tell why. Wayne Manor? Oh. That was right, the multimillionaire (or was it billionaire now?), Bruce Wayne's place. The guy you either loved, hated, or paid no attention to whatsoever (I happened to be in the third category).

"Do you know Bruce Wayne?" I shivered slightly again, and put my hands on my arms, peering around for a source of a draft. Daniel put his palms against my upper arms, rubbing up and down to warm me up. Maybe it was the wine or the rain, or the movie like we were teenagers again, but suddenly I wasn't so sure that I wanted to leave. I leaned into him, and was met with a pleasant, light scent of cologne. He hadn't grown much in the past nine years, at least not in height. My temple lay against his clavicle.

"I guess you could say that." There was a hint of a smile in his voice, and my curiosity was stirred. Brawny arms pulled me tight to a broad, heavily muscled chest. _There are secrets here, _I thought to myself. _It's just like I thought—I'm not the only one with a past._ His heartbeat was strong and slow, and I was losing myself. It wasn't exactly an unwelcome feeling either.

"There's a lot you aren't telling me, isn't there?" My voice was muffled against his chest, but he heard me. His hold on me loosened, letting me go far enough that he could see my eyes. Cobalt eyes were searching mine, trying to find their way in, trying to figure me out.

"I could say the same about you, couldn't I?"

"Fair enough." Daniel leaned in for a kiss, not breaking eye contact, prepared to stop if I gave him any reason to. I didn't stop him.

In the course of things, I don't suppose it mattered that we kissed. It was a nice, clean moment though, a sweet instant in spite of the hell that was to come. For a second I imagined (or maybe it wasn't my imagination) that Gotham opened her eyes to m for the first time. Then, why shouldn't She? I was kissing one for her (adopted) sons. His lips were flush against mine, and his fingers entwined in my hair, holding the back of my neck. And then Daniel pulled back, restrained himself, a gentleman.

"You can keep kissing me," I breathed, holding at his hip.

"Would you want that?"

"Yeah. If you do, that is."

"Yes. I do." So we kissed again, and this time he barely hesitated to kiss me again, and after that there was no hesitation at all.


	5. There are Circumstances

Now all those simple things are simply too complicated for my life  
How'd I get so faithful to my freedom?  
A selfish kind of life.  
Simple Kind of Life; No Doubt

**#.03**

Things escalated. They do. I do not have a habit of indulging in casual sex (or on that note, any sex at all for that long span of years). And the way Daniel held me and kissed me like it was breathing, and I was all the air he needed to fill his lungs—well, I assumed he hadn't been sleeping around either. I didn't know for sure, and I didn't really care. I just knew that I remembered him—after nine years I apart _I remembered him_ and he remembered me. Our bodies went naturally from there, instinctively from memory. But it wasn't just that. It certainly wasn't just physical.

This was that fabled, fairytale chemistry. This was like riding a bike, this was swimming: you just don't forget. This was, more than anything else, little pieces of broken, long unused love starting to sing (in their rusty voice) again. I didn't understand it. I didn't understand how after so many years and what he did to me, how I could find it in myself to feel so normal around him. I felt… stabilized, and it was a horribly beautiful feeling—horrible because I wanted to trust him so _badly_ that he'd never hurt me again, but I couldn't. I was spinning, uncontrolled, a comet rocketing through empty space, and then all of a sudden, there was a planet up ahead.

And I had to tell myself not to become attached, not to be pulled in. Physically, I needed this. Emotionally it was crippling.

Thing progressed (like I said, they do). We ended up staggering backwards into his room. I didn't spare much time looking around, but it was in the same fashion as the rest of the apartment: tidy and open. It had an unanticipated air to it; as if the room was sort of holding its breath, not used to so much energy. Something told me that not much but sleeping went on in here, despite how well kept it was, and that settled some of my nerves. This was as spur of the moment and unexpected for him as it was for me. We slipped onto his bed, and it was soft, smelling lightly of sleep and shower. When my hands drifted down to his jeans, Daniel paused and caught my eye.

"Are you sure?" He had completely frozen, attentive. I could have cried. If only the world had more of him. When he became solidly immobile, I couldn't help but stop as well.

"Yes. Well, no, I'm not sure that it's a smart thing to do. But I want to." The rationality, the fact that we were two adults on his bed half-naked already, and discussing whether sex was responsible right now, was so utterly ridiculous. "Are you sure?"

"No." My face fell, and I prepared to be extremely, extremely embarrassed, but then he smiled and kissed my forehead. "But I want to." Daniel started to kiss me again, my temple, my cheeks, and neck-and-ears-and-mouth. I ran my hands up into his shaggy, dirty blonde hair and kissed back.

"Do you think we should?" I asked, whispering the words onto his mouth. He smiled I felt it on my lips.

"Probably not." But his voice was happy, and carefree, and that resolved the matter. And then as things began to do what they _do_ and speed up again—the phone rang. At first we both tried to ignore it, but it became apparent that no such thing was happening. Finally giving up, Daniel kissed me a last time and walked over to where the phone was persisting to ring.

"God damn it," He growled, and it was so irritable that I would have chuckled if I hadn't been so nervous. I couldn't stop wondering—_who would call so late?_ It wasn't really _that_ late but it _was_ past eleven. I was nervous and upset because what seemed the most logical answer was 'a girlfriend'.

I knew this had been to good to be true, and I had still fallen for it. I resented the possibility of being 'the other woman'. Anger was glowering in my belly at being _used_, or being kept in the dark. Still, the anger was overshadowed by the overwhelming shame of it. So what was this all? A chance to make amends? Did he think he was doing me a favor or making things better by doing this?

Maybe it was meant to clear _his_ conscience, and had nothing at all to do with me. Either way, I was sickened. I had been so _sure_ he wasn't lying about seeing someone else (and trust me, knowing whether someone was lying or not was a skill I had long since perfected). I had been _so_ sure…

"What do you _want_?" Daniel snarled into the receiver. No hello, or any other greeting at all. I blinked a few times, and felt my stomach untangle a few of the knots it had worked itself into.

_Don't get your hopes up. _Is that was I was doing? Getting my hopes up? What happened to not getting attached? _They could just be_ _having a fight,_ I thought. _In which case you were undoubtedly used to 'get back' at whomever he's seeing now._ But something told me that there was just too much of a _vicious_ tone in his voice for that.

"I told you. I told _him._" There was a pause. My eyes drifted over to his closet, which was slightly ajar. For some reason, I couldn't look away from it. There wasn't anything special about it or anything—a typical closet, with a shelf at the top. When he went on, he was even more enraged, and his voice was close to cracking in fury. "DON'T TELL ME WHAT'S IMPORTANT AND WHAT ISN'T! I LISTNED TO THAT NINE YEARS AGO AND-" My eyes snapped from the top shelf of his closet to him, startled. I don't know what he said after that, because very quickly his voice dropped so that I could barely even hear him. Daniel was whispering very fast, fuming, and stopped in mid-sentence, so I guess he was cut off by whomever he was talking to. They talked for a relatively long time. My attention went back to the closet. _What's in there that I can't look away?_ I thought. I had almost forgotten there was someone else in the room, I was so memorized, until Daniel spoke again.

Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. "I told you, not tonight. I told him not tonight. I made that _very_ clear, didn't I?" But he was losing force, and even the way he was standing announced defeat. Another pause. "Yeah. I know. I'll be there. Give me a few minutes." The phone dropped onto its holder, with a distinctive clack. Daniel sighed again, and rocked back on his heels, hands over his face.

"So, who was that?" He turned and looked at me. I saw something right there, on _the tip of his tongue_, and in the heat of anger he was prepared to say it. Clenching his jaw and coming over to me, sitting next to me, he let the remnants of his anger go. I don't know how he could do that, or how anyone can do that. Maybe I just have a hard time letting anger go.

"My boss. Or rather, my boss's secretary." That kills me now: 'my boss's secretary'. What a way to _put_ it. Daniel took my hand in both of his, and kissed each of my eyes. While he was doing this, I said I thought he had the next day off. "I do. I… it's a crazy schedule. We've been trying to nail this one process for a couple weeks, and it has to be ready for Friday." He was talking fast, but smoothly.

_You're lying._

I didn't realize I said it aloud until I saw the look on his face—bewildered, lost, cornered. Quickly I stood up, and started collecting the few articles of clothing I was missing. I didn't bother with my heels as I left the bedroom, still buttoning my shirt, just picked them up and went for the door. I practically dove for the doorknob, but Daniel was pretty fast, and he lightly touched me on the shoulder.

I spun around, and he was just standing there, looking helpless and lost. I swear his eyes were watering, but it was dark and there weren't any lights on out here, only a dim light from the bedroom. Outside it was a torrential downpour. He was so vulnerable. I was looking at him, feeling my heart break (and in the back of my mind, thinking about his goddamn closet).

"I really want this to work, Nicole. I really, really do." His voice cracked. I set my jaw to stop myself from tearing up as well.

"Why? Why does this matter to you after so many years? I just don't know how you could do that to me and then want to be with me now. I just really don't _know_ Daniel. The only reasons I can think of are to get back at a girlfriend you're having a fight with, to try to make up for the past, or just… or just that you're that lonely." I shouldn't have pinned him then, not when he was so weak, but I just couldn't let him squirm out of it. Something predatory in me, I guess, _did_ what to see him in pain over this. Not for revenge: I just needed, _needed_ to know that this hurt him at least a fraction of what it hurt me.

"I… I really loved you Nicole, I-"

"Don't even." It was a low hiss.

"No, no I did. There were circumstances. I just, I just can't _tell_ you them."

"And there still are circumstances, aren't there?"

"Yeah. And I want you to know, there is no one else, there never _has_ been anyone else, nobody that has ever mattered, God I wish I could just-"

"If there are still circumstances, then why the fuck are you playing with me? Why are you even pretending that things could work out now? Jesus _Christ_ Daniel, what did you _do_? Are you into drugs or something?" Anger, again. Well, fuck. "No. Don't answer that last part-"

"I want things to work out! You're _here_ now, that's what matters to me! I'm going to make things work out, this time I'm not going to leave you, not for anything." Offhand, almost to himself, "This time I'm listening to myself."

"Don't feed me that."

"What?"

"Not going to leave me for anything. Just _don't_, okay?" Daniel murmured something, as if he was going to argue with me about it, and then thought better of it. He was looking away from me, at the ground.

"What is it with you?"

"Huh?" His head perked up a bit.

"Just, there's something so _different_ about you, and I don't know what it is, and it's driving me crazy. It's like, like everything about you is so much more focused now." I felt my eye brows raise as I put my finger on part of it.

"Part of the circumstances."

"I see."

We stood in silence for a while, until he made a slight movement, and I remembered he had told someone he'd meet them in a few minutes. My weight shifted, and I turned to go.

"Do you still want to go to that party with me Saturday? I can understand if you don't." I stalled. I didn't know. I honestly couldn't tell what was the best choice. It was pretty clear what the _smart_ choice was (to never see him again) but I just couldn't bring myself to admit it. I couldn't stay away. I almost hated him for it.

"You know, I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do with _this_. I think I'm just going to go home and flip a coin. Heads I go with you, tails I never want to see you again." Daniel stood up straighter for that, something glinting in his eyes. I could almost imagine that he held his breath for a second. The way his fingers twitched… "Anyway. I'll call you. Or I won't." There was another tightening in his fingers, forming a loose fist in the span of half a second.

I left, barefoot, with Daniel saying something about being barefoot as I closed the door behind me. My feet were so calloused, I could have walked on glass and not felt it. The thick, rough soles of my feet were the product of many years of going barefoot, or in nothing but sandals. I didn't think about anything as I left: my whole attention was devoted to putting one foot in front of the other. This got me quite a ways, before I was shaken back into reality.

I was on a street, only ten more minutes from my home (I hadn't taken a cab, and had been walking for the past forty minutes) when I realized I was being followed, one across the street, and one behind me. Two men, with completely _ridiculous_ outfits: really, they looked like something out of a _cartoon_ or something, the badly mismatched clothing had to be a gang symbol (there was no way anyone could dress themselves like that intentionally). I didn't quicken my pace, but I did lift my head up more, walking a little taller—which didn't say much, I've never been a hair over five foot one without heels.

The one behind me caught up to me—I made it easy—and grabbed my wrist. The other started in from across the street. "If you dun scream, maybe we let ya live." His breath stank of filth and alcohol, and despite the poor condition of his skin, I could tell that he was _young._ This kid couldn't have been a day over twenty.

"How generous of you." I snapped my wrist down, breaking his grip with almost shocking ease. As he focused on keeping hold of that arm, I connected a solid punch to his solar plexus with my other fist. Winded, the kid coughed and staggered: I swung my body around, using the momentum to bring my foot up (almost impossibly high) and crash my heel into his temple. Pain seared up my leg. _Shit,_ I thought. _Need to stretch more often._ He promptly sat down, clutching his skull and groaning.

A large hand clamped down over my throat.

_Fuck._ _How the _hell_ did you forget about the other one! Damn Nicole, what are you, a moron?_

I would have tried to flip him over me, but without the slightest bit of momentum to use to my advantage, and the fact that this guy was much larger, I was stuck. My feet raised off the ground, my throat caught in the crook of his elbow. I was starting to see very bizarre colors, and my muscles were giving up, against my will.

The creature said something, and chuckled.  
I heard the sound of a switchblade opening  
_Should have taken a cab,_ I thought to myself.


	6. Tip of the Tongue

If I run, I'll just become like all the faking lights  
So let the thunders take me under and break my legs tonight.  
Downwards Towards the Healing; Lovedrug

**#.04**

_Where is she?_ I was running as hard as I could, my chest heaving. The rain had stopped, but everything was still slick as hell, and I was sliding over it all. If wouldn't be pretty if I fell (not that it ever would be) and on the slippery surfaces of rooftops, it didn't seem like such an unfathomable thing. _Oh God, I have to find her. Oh God, I have to, I have to-_

I could help but blame this all on _him_, on Batman. I shouldn't, and it was irrational, but if something happened to her, it was all my fault. I couldn't handle it. Knowing that… that Joker was out, well, didn't help the nausea squirming in my stomach. Just in time I leaped, landing on the next rooftop with little control: it was dark, and I wasn't paying enough attention. If I had spotted the ledge any later, I would have fallen to the concrete below. Not far enough to kill me most likely (these buildings were not skyscrapers, but small apartments and restaurants), but plenty far enough to paralyze me, or break a leg at least.

_Joker's out. Oh my God I have to find her._ Oracle had contacted me earlier, when I was safe and warm, when it looked like things might actually work between me and Nicole. Of course. I mean, why not? Why the fuck _not?_ This whole… this… whatever the fuck this was, it managed to trample out our relationship last time, why shouldn't it try again?

_You can't blame that _all_ on Batman. It was, after all, ultimately your decision. You decided to stay._ A puddle covering a tiled section of roof caused my foot to slip out, and I almost fell. My eyes were searching the streets for Nicole, knowing that she hadn't taken a cab—I had followed her as far as I could before I had to go get my 'orders'. My teeth clenched. _Any other night. Any other fucking night._

If the news had been anything else, I could have shrugged it off. If Oracle had said anything other than 'Joker-broke-out-again-Batman-needs-to-see-you' I could have just gone back to bed with Nicole. I could have pretended for a night that this wasn't (really) all my fault. God, I hated myself. And then I was pissed because this wouldn't even be a problem if Batman would just, just, just suck it up and _kill_ that lunatic already.

_Stop it._

_-It's true. It's true and now, now Nicole's out there._

_So find her._

It was nuts, of course. I was vaguely sure that she lived at least an hour walk (in good weather and little traffic) from my house. Which meant that she would still be out here somewhere, unless she called a cab. I could only hope that she had kept walking in relatively straight, or maybe a few streets over from where I last saw her.

And then there she was, and I only questioned myself for fraction of a second whether it was her or not. I wondered who the other two men were, and within the space of a blink, knew that this wasn't good: then Nicole was beating the shit out of one of them (finishing with a kick that made me arch an eyebrow—since when could she fight?). The other though, he walked right up behind her, and took hold of her throat.

I took off sprinting, ignoring the exhaustion in my limbs. My cape lifted almost straight behind me, even though it was damp (then again, it wasn't as extremely lengthy as the one Batman wore—which I admit, I envied). I noticed in horror as the guy (who might have stood six-five) pulled a knife on her. I leapt onto a slanted roof, sliding too fast to really do much more than act.

My fingers dragged across the cheap, tin singles, getting tiny cuts and nicks, metal splinters I'd have to dig out later. I winced, but didn't try to stop it. At the last possible moment, using as much speed as I had obtained, I rocketed off the roof, and straight into him. The knife clattered away (I was so grateful for the sound) and the man let Nicole drop—she looked so limp; my stomach churned again.

His head smacking the concrete had knocked him silly, and the criminal's eyes rolled around in his head. I was practically standing on his chest. He stirred, moved as if to get up (or maybe he didn't and I just needed more of an excuse), I reached down, pulled him into a sitting position, and then broke his arm behind his back. The man screamed out in pain and I was completely numb to it, which I'm normally not. I kicked him in the chest, and this time he didn't try to sit up again.

Sirens sounded a ways off: their wail was something I had grown used to. I guessed that a concerned citizen (while safe inside their home) had decided that it wouldn't hurt to give the cops a ring. Usually they weren't so thoughtful. I turned to Nicole, but of course she didn't know it was me. I found myself wishing for a cowl, something better than this simple mask: my hair was left loose, and I was worried she might recognize it. Right now though—right now she was barely moving, twisting slowly on the concrete.

My heart hurt.

Figuratively.

(Literally, it was my lungs that were aching, more that anything else.)

Deciding that I could risk her seeing me close-up (and because I couldn't just leave her on the sidewalk, not until the police came—and they would be here in a few moments) I walked to were she had been dropped. Bending down, I carefully stretched her on her back—I was fairly sure she hadn't hit her head when she fell, but I wouldn't be taking any risks. Gently I set my hand behind her head, barely lifting her. Her eyelids fluttered, pupils rolling around dizzily.

"The police will be here shortly. They'll take care of you." I tried to disguise my voice, to make it deeper. I don't know if it would have mattered much if I hadn't.

In the long (or short, I guess you could say) run it _didn't_ matter at all.

Slowly her eyes began to focus on me. Her breathing had calmed, deep but almost regular. It wasn't fun to be choked. Personally, I was just glad that her windpipe hadn't been crushed: the guy was certainly strong enough to do it. Her brow was furrowing, relaxing, and furrowing again. As if she was trying to place me. I don't know if it was because I had a familiar face… or just the usual, expected 'a man in mask with a cape just saved my life' piece.

I shouldn't have, but I softly touched her cheek. The sirens were closer now, a piercing scream instead of a distant wail. Her hand raised lightly, touched my cape, as if feeling the material. A car door slammed: and quickly, as if she had suddenly found out where she was and what had happened, Nicole sat straight up—would have collided with me if I wasn't already pulling back. There was a tug on my cape as it came free of her grip—in the time it took an officer to run over to her, I was gone, in the air, safely away.

They got her a blanket, wrapping her up. Small checks were done to see if one pupil was dilated. Feeling her neck, they decided that it was no need to call out an ambulance—it probably helped that she was struggling to get to her feet, trying to look around, look up at the rooftops. With a soft word from one of the officers though, she settled, polite but still obviously more irritated than frightened. Despite having almost been choked to death, or stabbed, Nicole was more annoyed by the formalities of the officers than she was shaken by the actual event.

I'm not excellent at reading lips, but clearly, all she wanted was to go _home_, and repeatedly voiced this. With the officers as tired as she was, and seemingly just very, very relieved that they weren't dealing with a murder case, they settled for giving her a ride home. When they took her home, I didn't follow—that felt like it would be a total invasion of privacy. She had very explicitly _not_ told me where she lived, and I would respect that. The two bruised and beaten criminals were read their rights, cuffed, and shoved into the back of a patrol car.

(Later, I looked into the case and it seemed that even if for some reason Nicole hadn't wished to press charges—she did, of course—it wouldn't have made much of a difference: these two men were wanted as serial rapists, with most of their encounters ending in murder. Either way, they were going to jail for a long, long time.)

When I went to sleep that night, I kept playing the scene over and over in my head. And each time I got to the part, right when she sat up… I froze. The truth is, I hadn't pulled back simply because the police had arrived: they had seen me before. They knew that I existed, apart from simple urban legends and whatnot. I had recoiled because in the second before she had come completely to her sentences, her lips had moved.

I could see my name there, on her lips, in the moment before I escaped.

That, to say the least, complicated things.


	7. Welcome to the Jungle

Welcome to the jungle…  
Welcome to the Jungle; Guns 'N' Roses

**#.05**

I had the phone in one hand, and a coin in another. I knew that I could just forgo this. I had a good reason to just stay home: I had been attacked last night. But the thing was, I wasn't going to cop out with that. I felt like I certainly owed it to myself not to pull a lame stunt like that—if I wasn't bothered now, then why hide behind the stupid event? Besides, I didn't need to bring that up to him: it would require telling him that I had tried to walk home (which took roughly an hour), barefoot, around midnight.

And there were other reasons.

Like the fact that I met face to face with one of Gotham's personal vigilantes, Robin as it were, and had been on the verge of calling him by Daniel's name. The scary thing was that even now, after the fact, when I thought about it… there was really nothing to firmly secure in my mind that it _wasn't_ Daniel. Except for common sense, of course. But physically, he had had the same build, and I wish I had spent more time focusing on the hair: to me it looked similar enough.

It was scary because even standing here, in the broad light of day, it was like a dream that I couldn't shake off. The longer I stayed here, with each night that I slept in this city, things were more and more dreamlike. It was like a free fall from reality with no ground in sight. I guess you just had to reach out and find something to take a hold of, to steady yourself. I just didn't know what that would be yet.

As my fist tightened the coin pressed uncomfortably into my palm, and I was brought back to the task at hand. I was standing in my tiny kitchen, leaning against the counter, clad in pajama pants and a tee-shirt (it was early afternoon but I hadn't gotten much sleep, and I felt no need to leave the house that day). Closing my eyes, telling myself not to root for heads, I flipped the coin.

At the same moment my grip on the phone loosened, for no real reason. I nearly dropped the phone, and was just quick enough to keep hold of it, and make a grab at the quarter spinning in the air. As soon as I took hold of the tiny disk though, a shock ran up into my fingertips—almost like static electricity. The coin fell to the floor, and rolled under the heavy stove, beyond hope of retrieval. I stared at the crevice the coin had found its way into in disturbed shock.

This place was such a dream.

"Okay, I get the point," I said to no one in particular, and dialed Daniel's number.

---

"Did the coin really flip heads?" Daniel asked me, as we made out way past the gate of Wayne manor. He was wearing a conventional suit, and I was wearing a black dress with heels. I had had my hair put up for the party: it had grown it out in the past decade, from its usual short length that I had kept it at during highschool.

"And what if it didn't?" I asked, smirking. Daniel looked down at me, teal eyes smiling either way.

"Oh, I'm not complaining. I don't care if it landed right in the middle: I'm just happy that you decided to come with me. Even if you only came to see Bruce Wayne, or something like that." The last part was in good humor, so I let it slide. No, I hadn't come here to see Bruce Wayne or his riches. Frankly, I didn't really care _that_ much.

"Actually, to tell you the truth, the coin rolled under my stove when I flipped it." I didn't tell him about loosing hold of the phone for no reason, or the shock I had gotten when I tried to catch it. I don't think it would have made me look very sane. "I took that as a sign, and called you anyway." He smiled, we were almost at the heavy oak doors.

"Wait… you own a _stove?_ You have changed." I laughed, and felt some of the jitters in my stomach quiet.

"Oh, come now. You know better than that—it came with the apartment and isn't exactly put to use or anything."

"Figures," Daniel grinned, and rung the doorbell. Almost instantaneously, an elderly butler opened the door.

"Right this way, Sir and Madame."

There was an ambient beat playing, with soft light, casting multicolor glows in different areas, switching regularly. Stepping onto the hardwood floor with a small "click" from my heels, I felt my eyebrows rise considerably. This place really was amazing, and even though the room and its furnishings seemed to actively put one at ease, I got that cold chill again; one like when I was staring out at Gotham from Daniel's apartment window. Daniel put his arm loosely around my waist, probably hoping I wouldn't see it as a possessive gesture.

The first two hours passed without a hitch. Daniel never left me alone (knowing that I wouldn't appreciate being abandoned among strangers) and he made a point of introducing me to his acquaintances. Acquaintances: that's what these people were to him, I could tell that they weren't much else from the way they talked to each other—as if the last time they spoke to each other was at one of these parties, along with the time before that, and the time before that.

When one older man (he wasn't exactly _old_ old—in his mid-fifties at least) gave me one of those creepy up-and-down looks old men can give, Daniel immediately tensed. He knew I was caught between standing up for myself, and not making a scene; I was bound by my unwillingness to put Daniel in a bad spot.

"Is there going to be a problem?" When Daniel stood straight, I swear he grew another foot. He had certainly learned how to center his weight, and look much more menacing.

"No, of course not." The man took the time to take another disgustingly open stare at me, and this time I felt my own muscles begin to tighten. Daniel started forward, and the man recoiled, with his fists closed and very, ever so slightly raised. It was for show—but it had the desired effect.

"We're all going to be _polite_, aren't we? I'm sure you don't want any problems tonight, _sir._" The old man nodded, gathered a couple of his buddies and walked to another room of the party. This was about the time that Bruce Wayne strolled over from a gaggle of girls that were half his age, and trying to hang off his arms.

"Things going all right?" I moved my eyes over to him very slowly, and while I stood in some kind of almost _awed_ silence, Daniel answered.

"Yeah. Just a minor irritation."

"That's good." Pale blue eyes focused on me, and I fought the urge to squirm. I used to be (and still was, to be fair) very heavy into the occult scene. That is, the mind reading portion. Sensing people. To an extent (again, I should be fair—a very _large_ extent) I dabbled in (pursued at length) mind control techniques. That is, through subliminal hints and psychic influence. People don't usually believe in the stuff.

Which, subsequently, makes it _so_ very affective.

What I'm saying is that I can read people. At one point I was so sensitive to the way people carried themselves, their facial expressions, tone of voice, pupil dilation—and lets not dodge it: the _feeling_ I got off of them—that I would get physically ill for days when coming into any sort of close contact with others. I've learned to control that, and tried to ignore it once I realized that it would end up fucking up my life even further (and it had been a revelation that I _could_ fuck up my life further).

(Gotham though, seemed to be not only reviving my knack for it, but coming on pretty damn _strong_.)

Anyway. What I'm getting at. Bruce Wayne was making me wholly, inconceivably uncomfortable. I was getting _dizzy_ for Christ-sake. _Hold yourself. Hold yourself up. Come on, shut it off._ But it wasn't working. The smile on his face was just _killing_ me, I mean, I was trying to piece it all together. My head began to ache.

"Nicole?" Daniel's voice brought me back.

Brought me down to earth.

After nine years, the same effect, like magic.

(It was the voice I had been searching for, for a decade.)

"Nicole?" It occurred to me that Daniel had tried to introduce us and I had completely spaced.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Bruce Wayne-"

_Liar liar liar liar-liar-liar!_

But what came out of my mouth (luckily) was, "I'm sorry—where is your bathroom?"

Both of them looked alarmed, and Daniel tried to put a hand on my arm, asking me if I was feeling okay: but the other one, the one who was Most Certainly Not Bruce-Wayne had pointed and told me down the closest hall, and then in the hallway that branched off from that one. Three-doors-down-on-the-left.

I nearly collapsed on the way there, falling against the hallway wall, gratefully not slamming into some portrait or another. Nobody saw, they were all in the party rooms. It struck me as sort of odd that there were no women down here, seeing as women tended to like to congregate around restrooms. Then again, it also struck me as odd that when a multimillionaire stepped up to me all my senses copped out, and I felt like I was going to pass out.

I pushed myself off the wall, and tried to walk as straight as I could, finally stumbling into the (luxurious) bathroom. I leaned against the sink heavily, hoping for some semblance of my coordination would return. My face was so _pale_ in the mirror, that it scared me at first. My eyes were wide, the color was gone from my cheeks, and I had broke into a cold sweat at my temples.

I looked like I had seen a ghost.

(Ha. Ha.)

After a few minutes of leaning against the wall, holding my face in my hands, I felt like I had regained, bit my bit, my balance. My stomach slid down out of my throat, and I could at least imagined that the ground beneath my feet was solid—though it still seemed to tilt wildly from time to time, when I was just standing there. I splashed my face with cold water (without any makeup to worry about—didn't really touch the stuff, even for a fancy ball and all of that). Letting out a deep sigh, I did a mental reinforcement, putting psychic 'walls' around myself. Hopefully they'd hold.

With another glimpse in the mirror—I still looked anxious or nervous—I stepped out of the bathroom. Turning to go back the way I came, I felt a crawling, _slithering_ feeling on the back of my neck. I think it was at this point that my control over my limbs evaporated. Something had _hooked_ me from the inside, and I was turning, unable to fight, getting that floating feeling again.

_Almost like an out-of-body experience,_ I thought. Expect for the fact that I was most definitely inside of my body.

I turned, and the hallway was fairly long. I could still hear the music from the party, but it was irrelevant now. I was moving with an eerie grace and purpose (that is, eerie because a few minutes before I couldn't stand without swaying). I peered into each room—the doors were all open. And then I reached the end door, the door on the right.

It was closed.

_This one._

I turned the doorknob, and thought I heard a lock clicking—but then the door was opening easily over plush, dark red carpet. It was a library or study of some kind, with an incredibly high ceiling, and very high bookshelves to match: all filled with books. I didn't bother closing the door behind me. I couldn't have if I wanted to.

My fingers ran over the books, leisurely at first, but then my hands jerked fast, searching for _something._ I turned around one of the bookshelves and there was a desk that seemed for some reason out of place. Almost like when you watch a cartoon, and the object to focus on is discolored. Like that.

My fingers twitched and danced and pulled. I'm not a nosy person, and I certainly wouldn't be doing _this_—and moment by moment I was becoming more and more destructive. _This is **wrong,**_ I told myself, as I flung a book from a shelf behind me. But the something inside me was getting impatient, and only sped up.

_This is wrong—oh God, this is wrong._ It was all I could keep thinking to myself, mortified but at the same time filled with a calm sort of emptiness. Or no. Not emptiness, just _vastness_: vastness and coldness and deep, murky water.

But then a peculiar sensation of serenity washed over me, and I felt my horror soothed. I knew better than to think that this new calmness came from within me: it felt purely external; someone was lending me a bit of Her own. The tranquility that I felt seep into my bones was the tranquility that came with having all the time in the world to wait and watch.

_This isn't me,_ I thought.

Then who was it?

_Impossible_.

But then another wave came, leisurely rolling over me, soaking me in serenity, sedation. Or just to prove that sure the idea was crazy, but maybe I was right. I felt so old, and deeply, deeply tired. But with the prolonged age came a sort of strength, slow, persistent power.

_It's still impossible._

_Well, hey—you're the pagan, aren't you?_

I felt indignant, and again it wasn't _my_ emotion: my eyebrows furrowed outside of my control. My hands went to my hips, even though I wasn't conscious of sending them there. I did not focus my eyes, but they drifted down to the desk. The desk that was somehow out of place. As my tongue darted out over my lips, I wasn't given time to (figuratively) blink, before I watched myself rip out the drawers of the desk.

It was making an awful lot of noise.

I thought about something I had seen in a movie once.

The Other, the one that wasn't me, perked up for a moment, as if listening. And then, with very precise movements, executed just what I had thought a second before. Just like the movie, my hand went to where a drawer had been, and my fingertips searched the top of the frame. There was nothing, but then running along, they found the ridge of a button, and pushed.

There was a soft hissing sound behind me, and a large picture that had be hanging there slid over, revealing a steel door—which in turn, slid into the wall, revealing a path. I got another of those weird sensations on the back of my neck, and this time as I peered down the long stairs into the dark corridor, it wasn't something scaly, but softly furred. I felt the flutter and beat of thing wins on my neck and shoulders, but I knew better than to look. Nothing was there. Whatever had been in me, guiding me—it was loosening its hold (it, I say: as if I don't know who She was and is), letting my own natural curiosity to take over.

_You've come this far,_ was the cliché that I kept in mind. I didn't bother looking over my shoulder, or trying to restore anything from the havoc I had watched myself wreak. I gave a look down the long corridor (at least it looked long from where I was standing) and knew that it was going into the ground, somewhere pretty far down. I could see light near the end, and thin bars gave off dim lighting, running across the ceiling. Pausing to reach down and yank off my heels, I didn't look back as I began the descent.

When I was only a few steps down (the steps were cut out of stone) I heard someone come in the room behind me. I had a few seconds before they would see the tunnel, the opening (it was necessary that you walk around a few book shelves, not to mention the books that littered the floor). I hesitated no longer, and without positively _bolting_ down the steps, I certainly picked up the pace of things. I heard a distant "Oh my!" and concluded that it had been the elderly servant, probably coming after hearing the noise (though I couldn't be sure about that—the music must have masked most of it). The stones were freezing under my bare feet, cold and very slightly damp.

And then the floor leveled out sooner than I had expected. Tripping, my knees smarted on the hard floor, and my momentary focus on the pain and embarrassment of falling stopped me from looking at my surroundings in any depth. Then things began to light up, big bright lights, like spotlights, and I quickly spun around, trying to find words to explain myself (knowing, obviously, that there were none).

But no one had come down the steps. Not yet, at least. I turned back around, and felt my jaw slacken. It was… unbelievable–completely, utterly, _unbelievable._

There was a main station with an excessive amount of computers, and somehow even with all the hardware and wiring, things managed to look neat and organized. I couldn't even recognize more than half of the technology, which was astounding to me. But really, that's not what was making my stomach drop down to my toes. I saw the _car_ all long and lit up and shined.

The fins.

The hood.

And somehow, I still couldn't piece it all together. I felt stupid, but my mind refused to make that leap (or as it was, very, very small step). I knew I recognized the vehicle, but for the life of me, I couldn't have told you more than that I remembered it front somewhere.

_Saturday morning cartoons._

"What?" I whispered, jumping. It didn't completely register that it had been my own voice I heard. It sounded so small and weak in here, this… cave, it was huge. Slowly I revolved, trying to take in the whole place. Then a wall with what looked almost like telephone booths drew me forward. My feet were moving without my command, but this wasn't like before: this was my own need to figure things out.

The telephone booth objects were lit up, looking very much more smooth and attractive than actual telephone booths. I blinked, and let my eyes focus on what was inside—getting past the glare the lights were putting on the glass.

My jaw dropped.

I sat down very fast, and much harder than is comfortable.

The rest of the suit was visible now, but I wasn't looking at that. All that I was really seeing was the large Bat-symbol on the chest of it.

Having come to a full halt, my brain resumed functioning at twice its usual speed, electrical impulses sending half-formed messages and ideas, because by the time they were fully formed they were obsolete and used up.

The overall concept?

"There's something really fucked up about this place."

Every time things would come together, they would fall apart again, and I'd forget what the picture I had just held in my mind. I closed my eyes, and shut off my senses (and sure, this wasn't exactly the right place to be doing that). The storm raging in my head began to calm, eventually. Things were coming together, and more and more frequently, getting 'stuck' that way.

_That's why this place seems so strange,_ I said to myself. _Gotham doesn't _exist_ to the rest of the world. To the rest of the world Bruce Wayne is Batman and everyone knows it. To the rest of the world Batman is a _comicbook_ hero, a child's idol. _To Gotham, the Gotham that really exists (or doesn't, depending on how you want to look at it), Batman was an urban myth.

In both worlds though, Batman was a legend. That was undeniable.

_So that's it._

And it hit me very hard then: this is why Daniel stayed.

_How do you walk away from a dream?_

How can you walk away from a city that isn't bound by the same reality as every other one? What else can compare to a home that allows you to create who you are, every morning—or, no—every night?

For the first time in a decade, everything fell into place.


	8. Fun and Games

There goes my pain, there goes my chains  
Did you see them falling?  
Quasimodo; Lifehouse

**#.06**

A strong, large hand clasped around my arm, and I was dragged to my feet with the ease it takes to pick up a misbehaving puppy. I didn't fight: the grip on my arm was too sure, for one, and it wouldn't have done any good _any_ way.

"What do you think you're doing?" Came the low growl, and I would have shuddered if I weren't still in the bliss of pure comprehension. It was a voice that one did not forget—something between rich polished wood and gravel.

"Well, you were only a bit more than half lying-" I said, and it didn't occur to me that they wouldn't know that I was referring to earlier, when Batman had called himself Bruce Wayne. I probably sounded nuts. It wouldn't have mattered. I was spun around, now facing the legend. Daniel was standing off to the side, as if undecided on whether he was more ashamed of me, or furious with me. They both might have been more understanding if I hadn't destroyed the library. Looking up at Batman, the Man-Who-Was-Less-Than-Half-Bruce-Wayne, I felt my previous accomplished feeling pour out of me, and unto the stone floor—sliding away.

My God he was huge.

I quivered.

His lips curled into a sneer.

(Like I said. Might have been better if I hadn't torn apart everything in my path.)

Bruce Wayne looked as though he was going to say something to me, but then he was taking long strides towards the stairs, and I stumbled, trying to walk so that I wasn't being pulled. We passed Daniel, who briefly caught my eyes. _How could you?_ They said. _How could you do this? _I gave him a confused shrug (as much as possible, while being dragged along), and I saw his jaw set. He broke eye contact, staring at the ground.

I made it up the stairs without falling, mostly because if I started to I'd be roughly jerked upright again. Faintly I could still hear party music, and laughter. Then the library door was shut, with the old servant in front of it.

"Oh dear." Alfred looked concerned. He was the only one out of the three that seemed to have any regards to how I felt. Which is sort of funny I suppose, since he'd undoubtedly be the one cleaning up the mess I made. "Master Bruce, what shall I tell the guests?" It was a charity event. It wasn't as though Bruce could just ask everyone to leave without a proper explanation.

I was still being held at an awkward angle.

As if hearing my thoughts, my arm was dropped. I don't think Batman (because it was Batman that had brought me up here, not Bruce) felt much guilt about handling me like that, but I think he came a bit to his senses. Chances were that I wasn't his enemy, and though the circumstances were extraordinary, I hadn't really caused any lasting damage. Still, I had left one hell of a mess.

"Tell them… oh, I don't know. Tell them my lawyer called because some woman claims I'm married to her. They'll get a riot out of that," He added sarcastically. Alfred turned to go. "When you've finished that, I need the serum." Daniel, out of the corner of my eye, found it in himself to spare me a glance. I saw the servant's, Alfred's, minor surprise.

"Do you truly think that it will be necessary, Master Bruce?" His eyebrows rose inquisitively.

"Yes." Alfred left quietly.

For a second no one moved, and the room was silent except for the steady beat of music, and the occasional piercing woman's laugh. I licked my lips. _How much more trouble could I possibly get into?_ I thought.

"What's… what's the serum?" Batman seemed to hesitate between telling me to shut up and be quiet, or just letting me know. I guess the latter struck him as the better deal.

"It makes you forget everything that happened in the past fifteen minutes."

"How's it do that?"

Dead silence.

"It's not like I'm going to tell anyone." I offered, probably digging myself into a deeper hole. I didn't bother fidgeting, or facing him. I continued to stand facing the bookshelf around which Alfred would eventually appear with this 'serum'.

More silence.

"What if I say no?"

"You're not in the position to." There was a hint of a smirk in that voice. Like he had heard so many refusals, and persisted in answering them all the same way.

"I could r-" No, no I couldn't. Not fast enough. I wasn't _that_ stupid. "I could scream."

"You could."

Daniel shifted ever-so-slightly in his spot, but didn't say anything. He was looking at the floor again, not even letting his eyes get close to me.

"I won't agree to it. I'm not going to comply." I wasn't challenging him: how the fuck could I? I was easily slower, _much_ weaker, and had no plan whatsoever. It wasn't a challenge, just a statement.

"It doesn't matter."

I fought the urge to shiver, but felt the hairs on the back of my neck raise involuntarily. Not from his words… but from the cold draft that had crept in around me. But it wasn't just one of those funny-strange feelings: it really was a draft this time, with actual wind. It was almost refreshing.

Feeling suddenly, strangely uplifted, I turned around. This situation really was quite hysterical in its own way. I mean, come on. I found the infamous 'Bat Cave', and was now about to be given some kind of drug (which I was positive was government-made somewhere in the good ole US of A) that would make me forget what I had just seen. Just delightful when you thought about it.

I could have _laughed._

I peered up at him, again marking just how small I must have seemed. Daniel had straightened, his arms that had been crossed tightly loosened. I grinned mischievously. There's not much else you can do in that kind of situation.

"You're in comic books. Did you know that?" Batman blinked. Then Bruce Wayne blinked.

"Yes, I know."

"Doesn't it bother you that probably sixty-percent of the American population, not even counting other countries, knows your identity, where you live, what your secret _fears_ are?" One of them blinked, and I would love to tell myself that I saw a flicker of confusion, or in the least, disorder.

"It doesn't matter."

"You're right, it doesn't. It doesn't because people cross over that imaginary line into Gotham and they forget it all. Batman changes from the comics and cartoons they filled their youth with, to a vigilante occasionally mentioned on television. Children want to _be_ you and then POOF! Over that magical boundary, and they're telling other little boys and girls that you don't exist, Daddy says so."

I probably sounded wacko.

Batman/Bruce Wayne didn't say anything, but stood in stony silence.

Daniel didn't move to breathe.

I definitely sounded wacko.

"Children all over the world think of you and want to hug you, and tell you that things will be okay. Did you know that? And these people, they write comics like you're something they just made up out of their _heads_ or something—but hey. Maybe you are. Maybe somewhere, maybe everywhere, someone's dream is walking around in flesh and blood. But, I digress. Doesn't it bother you that children that are barely old enough to understand right and wrong _want to save you_ – and people here, they can't even lift a finger to save themselves?"

I didn't get an answer.

The door swung open smoothly, and I only knew Alfred had come in by the way the wood gently brushed the plush carpet. Holding my gaze one heartbeat, Bruce Wayne looked up at Alfred.

"Sir, the serum." The butler took a few steps forward, and I heard was sounded like a brief case flipping open. Now, I'm not afraid of needles (not exactly a fan of them either, but not many people are) but knowing what was in that small case, I felt my mood fall down into a lower key.

"You change your mind about complying?"

"No." Bruce Wayne shrugged, and plainly reached to place a hand on my upper-arm again. Without thinking, just as a reaction, I blocked it: used my forearm to knock his wrist away. Looking almost surprised, Bruce Wayne stood back for a moment, trying to place me. Undoubtedly asking himself how I could be such a fucking moron.

The next time he wasn't so gentle, but I tried to block again. I was half successful, but in the end ended up being held tightly by each forearm—I tried to kick, but then Daniel was there, telling me to settle down and that it wasn't a big deal or anything, just a shot. I managed to land a brush of a kick to his head, and then he got angry again and stopped talking.

I'd like to take the time to mention that I put up one hell of a fight for someone my size, against two grown men who were superheroes just about every night of the week. I think it's more of the fact that I squirmed like an eel that anything else though. Soon enough I was flat on the desk, Daniel holding each of my ankles, and Batman with an iron grip on each of my arms.

I could barely even move, because each time I did Batman would tighten his grip. It wasn't that pleasant. The servant stood by, with a severe frown on his face.

"Master Bruce. Is this all that _necessary_?"

"Alfred, just give her the shot."

I slammed my head back against the desk. Apart from the fact that the idea of wiping out a portion of my memory, no matter how small, made my flesh crawl—I felt like I was letting someone down. I had been lead down into that cave for a reason, and whatever that was, it was going to wither away right here.

_I need some help,_ I thought.

Batman's grip had loosened a fraction of an inch. He thought I had given up. Still wasn't taking any chances, though.

_I could really, really use some help._

There was that draft again, cold on my face. Batman wiped the side of his face on his shirt (which Alfred then clucked at, as he prepared the needle). While he was doing that, his grip loosened a bit more, still not enough to make a difference. And then the breeze licked at my temple again, and I opened my eyes. No change in Batman's position or facial expression.

How could he have not noticed that draft?

I smiled.

His grip tightened.

"This is all so ridiculous," I said, closing my eyes again. I let out a deep breath, and laid my full body against the desk. I let every muscle in my body relax accept for my right bicep—which Batman was clutching. Seeing this, his grip was reduced, almost remarkably so. Still, I kept that muscle as tense and bulging as I could. I let out a soft laugh, which he misinterpreted as further admittance of defeat.

Daniel's grip lessened more than his.

I heard Alfred lightly tap the needle.

"You're positive, Master Bru-"

"Just get it over with. Please." I said, feigning exhaustion. I silently thanked whoever might be listening that my voice didn't betray me—that the corner of my lips didn't curl up into a devious smile. In all actuality, adrenaline was being poured into my bloodstream. It wasn't a wholesome kind of amusement, and there was definitely something destructive in it, as if it would almost be fun just to see how far I could get, and how much worse I could make the situation.

It would have been easier if Alfred had been going faster, and I knew that. Would have allowed me much, much more leeway. But I had to make do. The old man didn't want to hurt me, which was touching. Right as he brought the needle down to pierce my skin, I completely loosened my bicep—and it didn't buy me that much room, but it was enough (or would have to be enough).

I jerked my arm away with all the strength in my upper body, at the same time freeing my left ankle (Daniel practically dropped it in surprise). Of course, Batman reached for my arm again, quick as ever—but it had all happened so fast that the needle was driven into his hand. I could have screamed with sheer laughter: the start had caused the servant to _drive_ the needle down. As he was preoccupied for the split second, I lunged forward.

Kicking off the desk with my left leg, Daniel still had a decent grip on my right ankle. Immediately he dove to catch my left ankle. I left it out, vulnerable, for just as long as it took him to grab it: then I hauled my whole body forward into a flip, twisting with all the strength of my back. Daniel's momentum and my direction caused him to go rolling: he slammed into a bookshelf.

Of course, every muscle in my body was screeching its agony, feeling ripped and torn. But it didn't matter. There was a desk between Batman and me. Which didn't exactly mean anything, but it was a lot better than my previous situation. I was still wondering how the hell I managed any of it. For an instant, no one moved. Daniel groaned and tried to stagger to his feet, holding his head (which I guess had collided pretty hard with solid wood). He was successful in scattering around more books.

Batman tensed, leapt.

But I had seen his face change.

His lip had twitched slightly in his frustration.

I saw the leap coming, and wasn't there were he landed.

Instead, I was scaling the nearest bookshelf as fast as possible. It would be harder for Batman or Daniel—this bookshelf was missing the majority of its contents, and might topple over under their weight, if they weren't careful. I was at the top, looking down, when I saw Batman's hands clench into fists.

Icy night air blew past me, and I spared a tiny glance beside me. If I ran along this bookshelf and made a decent jump—there was a window. An open window: strange, because all the rest of them were closed. And this one was at the very top. Batman's eyes followed mine, and his jaw tightened further. I turned and ran along the top of the bookshelves, which were nice and wide. I heard books falling to the floor as I was pursued.

"Sorry about the mess!" I shouted over my shoulder, and leapt—pulling my body into as straight a line as I possibly could. I've never been one for acrobatics: my foot hit the latch on the window, sending me head over feet.

But I was outside.

And the window had dropped closed.

I hit the ground with a thud, saying a quick 'Thank you' that I hadn't landed directly on my head. And then I realized that I had landed on knees, which promptly roared their disapproval. I screamed with them, shouting into the ground and digging my fingers into the topsoil of the flower garden I had fallen in. Panting, I blinked back tears, and mud was smeared into my dress and under my fingernails, my toenails, across the bridge of my nose where I pressed my face into it to howl out some of the pain. Nothing seemed broken or shattered though, and I didn't have time to be wasting around here. Pushing myself up, I stood on wobbling legs.

Maybe Bruce Wayne got caught up by some eager businessmen at his party, and couldn't get away without compromising his ego.

Maybe Batman realized that the serum wouldn't exactly matter anymore. It had been _twenty_ minutes since the Batcave.

Either way, I made it home. I don't remember it. But I woke up in my own bed the next morning, fully clothed.

I flipped onto my stomach, and screamed and laughed and cried into my pillow.


	9. The Calm Before

She crossed her fingers, won't look back at yesterday.  
Sometimes you feel like you can run back into her arms  
You made her, persuade her  
Don't let her slip away.  
Sugar Ray

**#.07**

By the time I made it outside, Nicole was gone. I had to go through a series of twisting hallways, making sure that I was avoiding areas that people could possibly be wandering around. Bruce had to go back to the party—it was necessary that he not sacrifice the attention or patience of his guests, unless he was to draw suspicion to himself, or possibly hinder his connections among Gotham's bluebloods.

In other words, I flew down the hallways, finally coming to a back door. Then I was outside, I skidded to an abrupt halt, looking up, right and left—frantically trying to place myself. _Ah._

I was on the wrong side of the manor.

Even running full tilt, I knew that she had plenty of time to at least be on her way back to Gotham. That was providing that she hadn't broken a leg in her fall (something told me that even something painful like a shattered wrist wouldn't have interfered with her ability to know when to get moving). I wasn't really expecting Nicole to still be under the window—and I was hoping she wouldn't be, despite the problems that letting her go might bring about. Talking hurriedly to myself, panting, I swung around a wide corner of the manor, looking up to see the library illuminated above. The curtains had been drawn, but the yellow glow filtered through eerily.

I did a quick search of the garden, and was immediately relieved to find that there was no one there. _Then at least she didn't break her neck,_ I thought, still shaken from the possibility that I might have found her paralyzed or dead. Thinking that, I took another glance up at the window I guessed she had shot through: it was at least forty feet in the air. I was silently amazed.

And disturbed.

There are two groups of people that can pull off those kind of freefalls in Gotham. One group tends to go on killing sprees and most of them end up in Arkham. The other… well, the other chases the former around. And most of them end up six feet under, or just as nuts as the patients in Arkham.

I didn't have to look very closely to see where she had landed—the topsoil was packed tightly, pushed into the ground. Even in the dim light I could see that she had landed poorly—on her knees even. Touching my knees gingerly, I played out the scene in my head—realizing how much pain must have been involved in hitting the ground the way she did.

Again, that creeping feeling of alarmed surprise stole under me; she shouldn't have been able to handle that. Much less, I didn't know how she would have ever even begun to _think_ in a way that permitted leaping through a window like that.

Again, there are only two groups of people that can walk away from a fall like that, here in Gotham. I kept telling myself to drop it. Kept telling myself that it had to be luck.

But it was just so hard to _swallow._

Partially because I knew how Gotham worked. With a decade of experience under my belt, I had gotten a pretty decent look at this Queen of Criminals. And what have I concluded? Sometimes in Gotham, things happen for no reason other than that they _need_ to. There's not much else to describe it: sometimes Gotham comes alive and suspends time for a few more seconds, allowing you to get away, to live to fight another day. Those are the times when I'm just so _positive_ that Gotham has a consciousness. She sees what needs to happen, realizes that left to realism and logic its impossible, and then allows you to transcend the scale of 'impossible' and get what to need to get done, _done._

Ask Batman about it.

Or don't. Chances are he'd ignore you.

But don't get me wrong—as much as Gotham loves Batman, you have to wonder if She's secretly (or not-so-secretly) a masochist. Just as often as She saves Batman, She is liable for saving Joker. You just really have to wonder what the Old Bitch is playing at sometimes.

"Lucky," I whispered and shook my head (but really, what is luck in Gotham?). Running my fingers lightly over the topsoil, I thought about how if Nicole hadn't landed in the flower garden, her kneecaps would have been crushed. The top soil had been loosely packed, giving her a (relatively) soft place to land. Standing up, I followed her footprints to the end of the flowerbed—after that, they disappeared into the thick, green lawn. Filling my lungs completely, I let out a long sigh.

Exactly the kind of 'dumb-luck' that Gotham doles out.

I walked down to the gate of Wayne manor, gently kicking at the grass every other step. My hands were pushed into the jacket pockets of my suit: fingers finding solace against the biting air. I didn't speed my pace. Batman would know she got away—whether I took my time getting back there to him or not didn't matter. Either way, I was going to be subjected to a "chat". I felt no reason to rush back to that.

Gripping the slowly rusting, high metal fence that surrounded the manor, a thin black bar in each hand, ice crept up through my fingers, and then traveled to my elbows—I didn't let go, despite the way my bones disagreed with the ache of holding cold metal. I could feel flakes of rust, and tiny pieces of paint crinkling off, transferring from the bar to the lines of my palms. A particularly icy breeze swept through me, finding its way in through the openings of my jacket and pants. Frosted fingers slipped into my undershirt; the dregs of winter clinging were around my body, drawing me into a bitter embrace. Thinking to myself that I couldn't wait for _real_ spring weather, I wondered if it was unnaturally cold for March, or if it had always been this way, every year. My skin puckered with gooseflesh, and I shivered lightly.

Looking from between the gate bars, I could see the light of Gotham below, in the far distance. Somewhere down there, Nicole was walking home along, barefoot and undoubtedly in serious pain. _Somewhere down there,_ I shivered again and closed my eyes: somewhere down there Joker was _loose._

I felt so alone, so helpless. _How could this have happened?_ It was on all our minds, in that room: Nicole's, Batman's, Alfred's and mine. How does something like that get around and weasel its way into reality? But I knew. I knew because I had seen too many impossible things happen here, in this city.

_Somewhere she's out there alone._

And I couldn't do a damn thing about it. I could drive around and look for her, but I knew in my heart that I wouldn't find her. Still, it was better than doing nothing. Even thinking this though, I didn't move. It was as if I had been glacially rooted to my spot, peering down on a Gotham that looked beautiful from this far away. Another gale of freezing wind came to pour over me like arctic water.

_How could this happen?_

_Nicole's all alone right now._

_And she has been for years, _Robin._ Or are you just choosing now to be a knight in spandex? You've always had such wondrous timing._

I sighed, the next inhale frost-burning my lungs so that I coughed.

Nicole showed up, Joker broke out of Arkham, and now this.

All in the span of a week.

And something told me, standing there, watching lights blink off and on in a rainbow of colors down below, that this was the calm before the storm. This was the last deep breath before a dive that one didn't expect to surface from.

I know it know as the moment of near-peace before… everything.

Things snowball.

They do.

And things had just begun to roll.

It's a scary feeling, to know that your standing on the edge of chaos, and that there is no way to avoid it. I was frightened. Not just for Nicole, but for things in general. This was a fear of the unknown. When you had two variables like this, when you throw the woman you knew you loved and Joker into the mix, and knew beyond all hope that this was all to be tied together somehow—you got scared. You got terrified.

You wanted to crawl under your covers and stay there.

Remember that.

Things get out of control so fast.

I don't blame it on her. I don't blame it on Batman-

No, that's a lie. I blamed it on everyone at one point or another.

Especially Batman.

When the world starts spinning and you can't hold on, you try to grab a hold of something familiar whether it's the right thing or the wrong thing.

Remember that.


	10. Friction

You're something beautiful, a contradiction  
I wanna play the game,  
I want the friction.  
Time is Running Out; Muse

**#.08**

I lay in bed for a few more hours, sobbing and laughing alternately. Just when I'd be convinced that I was completely doomed and hopeless, the hilarity of it all would seize me, and I'd laugh until my lungs ached. At the point where I thought my chest would burst from laughing so hard, I would begin weeping again. Sometimes, frequently, I couldn't be so sure whether I was laughing or crying.

Eventually, I exhausted myself, and just lay there, feeling paralyzed: tears were still streaming across my temples, and I'd give an empty giggle or two at times, but other than that I just fought to breathe. My throat felt too tight and dry. I attempted to get out of bed at long last—promptly screaming as my feet were placed firmly on the floor, and I stood. Fire licked my knees inside the muscles, feeling like glass had been ground into the meat there. Unable to bear my own weight, I fell forward on, what else, my knees. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming again, and tasted blood.

It wasn't just my knees either—though later when I inspected them, the flesh around them was beaten a sore black and blue, which later turned into a yellow-green band of old bruises beginning around each thigh and spread to about my mid-calves. My feet had also suffered from the walk home, which I assumed was how I got back to my apartment. Calluses or no, there was dried blood caked around my heels and between my toes, and a good deal of it had also soaked into my bed-sheets. My ankles were enflamed for a few days afterward, red and swollen.

My fingers splayed on the wood floor as I pushed myself up. Loosing my balance, I tripped again, but clutched a wall in time to catch myself. Determined, I put one foot in front of the other, feeling like a toddler. Swaying, my knees threatening to buckle, I held myself up by sheer willpower. Sweat broke out at my brow, but I held on. I took baby steps to the living room, always using tables, other furniture, or the walls to support myself, trying to ignore the fact that my feet where puffed out about twice the amount they should have been, and were covered in grime and blood.

The pain did not lessen, but after twenty or so minutes of crawling along at this snail's pace, the muscles in my legs began to unwind and stretch. This made controlling my limbs easier, and my balance was making a slow return—but the knives in my shins were still churning and twisting. I pulled open the fridge door, and leaned in.

"Fuck," I grumbled. There was no alcohol at all. I should have known. I tried not to drink at home, after seeing alcohol claim my father. Instead I pulled out the container of tea I had made the other day. I poured myself a glass, and stuck it in the microwave. When that was finished, I carried (at times the hot tea would lap up over the rim of the glass, and searing liquid would fall on my hands, which I considered the universe's way of kicking me while I was already down) the glass, and made it to the couch. Turning on my television, on the screen last night's charity party was being covered. I watched for a short while, long enough to be sure that there was nothing on a woman falling out of a window, or anything of that sort.

Then the reporter took a more serious tone.

"In other news, there is still no lead on the whereabouts of the escapee from Arkham Asylum—the infamous mass murderer who calls himself the 'Joker'." A clip flashed to Jim Gordon, the Commissioner of police, waving away reporters. More extremely hot tea burned my hand—which was when I realized that I shaking, badly. I changed the channel. No matter how many times I pushed the channel button, it seemed that there was nothing on the TV except for reports of rape and murder. On the non-news channels, actors were pretending to be rapists and murderers.

"Someone's fucking with me," I said out loud, and turned off the TV. Leaning back, my head rested on the armrest of the couch. The material of it was sort of itchy, and I thought about how cheap I was. I had enough money to be living in a _good_ apartment, with beautiful furniture and all—instead I went for the low cost stuff. The fuzz of the second-rate couch rubbed my arms, and I decided that it didn't really matter—possessions weren't so important. I did however, have a very expensive computer with high-speed Internet and digital cable on my TV. Those were things I didn't feel obliged to skimp on. As soon as my eyes slid shut (I was so very, very tired) I heard the television hum, and come back to life.

"Oh you son of a _bitch_, don't do this to me." I opened one eye—more violence on the screen. Reaching for the remote, I shut it off. But then I was sitting up very fast, spilling more tea. I turned the channel back on. Turning the channels very leisurely but purposefully now, I let myself absorb what I was seeing.

Murder.

Rape.

Child molesters.

Wife beaters.

Drugs.

More drugs.

Mob bosses.

Murder.

Drugs.

Rape.

And then, at the end, an old clip of Gordon being questioned about finding and arresting the Batman. "We will find him, and we will bring him to justice. Vigilantes, despite whatever their intentions may be. We will not let Gotham be run by the costumed-" The TV buzzed, and shut off. I released my finger from the power button, and let the remote drop to the floor.

"How convenient." I knew at that point, without a doubt, I was being used. And I would have imagined myself being upset, or at least angered by this, but instead I was… excited. For the first time since my teenage years, I was truly intrigued at the idea of something. The first thing I did was rush to my room, and pull out some large boxes under my bed—more shambling and hobbling than anything. The pain in my knees was superceded, all but forgotten in my sudden knowledge or purpose. I half dragged, half pushed the cardboard boxes into my living room.

Filled with journals, binders, and other personal writings and references, they weighed about forty pounds each. After they were in a satisfactory place, I went over to my bookshelf (which was fairly impressive—books were one of the few things that I bought very much of) and selected a few titles. Each one was on psychic protection, defense, and more importantly, offense. Some of them were in better condition than others, but all of them had very obviously been poured through and analyzed bit by bit, read and reread. I also went back for a couple on subliminal suggestion.

Opening the cabinets at the bottom of the bookshelf, I took out another few binders, full of newspaper clippings, articles printed off the Internet, and photocopied pages of books. Finally, I settled on the couch, surrounded by boxes and piles of my own work and experiences, along with authors that I had found particularly helpful over the years. My knees throbbed away.

Sitting down and feeling my legs press into the old, battered couch, I had the overwhelming gut feeling of not knowing where, or how to start. I was lost, and with every passing second I forgot where I had intended to go. Did I really think any of this was possible—did I really believe that Batman exists?

Miserably I answered with a _yes._

But even if he did, why did I think that I could emulate him, or at least his work? What means did I have to become a vigilante? And then I thought about the years after Daniel had left me, and it had been unknown to me at the time, but he left me for this place. I thought about how I had signed up for every martial arts course I could find. I worked myself into the ground between college, studying psychic influence, and martial arts. In all honesty, I had become a machine. I had to, to survive myself, to survive the world.

At the same time that I learned how to break an adult man's neck, I learned how to be just as efficient in executing a term paper—getting to the point, with a perfect, resounding connection. When I began to truly exercise power in mind control (and trust me, you either believe it exists or you're a victim of it), I had found my weapon in dominating both matches and debates. Everything was intertwined with the next—each separate story merged, parted, merged again. That's the only way I survived: by making everything depend on the other, by throwing out spider-webs between my developing and mastered skills, and walking them like tightropes, far, far above the ground.

And when I learned the right places to break a person's body, I mastered the ability to manipulate them, crush them, mentally.

Daniel left me for Gotham so I got crazy into martial arts and the occult. I found Daniel in Gotham, and within that week also found the Batcave. Now I was getting little hints every time I turned the corner or watched TV.

Yeah, here in good old Gotham, I could nail all my coincidences with one bullet: they all politely stood in line, one after another.

Somehow, amazingly, I didn't just survive—success-wise, goal-wise, I positively flourished. I suppose it's because I didn't sleep very much, and all my waking hours were focused on one of those three subjects (that being, writing, martial arts, and manipulation). There was the brief glimpse of a possible social life, but then circumstances of like tore that away too.

I knew what weapons I had here, now.

I was going to do what Daniel ha discovered a decade ago. Somehow, it seemed like everything came back to Gotham. Gotham was the reason I had sold my soul to the occult, to akido, karate, ju-jitsu, kung-fu... Gotham stole Daniel away from me, held him, and was giving him back now that she needed me. Did she need me? Was that the point of this? And if so—for what? Had she finally tired of Batman's policy on not killing those that clearly did not deserve to live—whom then just laid in wait for a few years, like crocodiles in still water, until they could rear their ugly heads again?

I didn't, couldn't find it in me, to resent Gotham then (which I'm sure is the way She planned). I didn't feel that I had any reason to live, and then there was Gotham, reeking of filth, begging to be purged. She was giving me something to do with my broken life, and instead of blaming her for dropping it like porcelain on gravel in the first place, I was grateful.

_Where to start now?_

-_The beginning._

Feeling wondrously filled with purpose, I sorted through my journals, finding the first one.

I'm going all out. I'm a star burning up, brightest before I fall. I'm burning myself up. There is so much happening at once. I'm going to be starting my first martial arts class tonight—I've signed up for so many that I'm not even sure what style it is.

Hours passed—I must have written at least four pages almost everyday. The sun had set. It was so dark that I had started to have trouble reading because I hadn't moved far enough to even turn on the light all day. I came upon an entry several months, maybe a year after the first.

I guess its only fair to explain why I'm doing this—why I'm taking everything that I see as _too human_ in myself, and tearing it out. Sometimes I feel like I'm pulling out the spine of a fish—where all the ribs and other bones are torn out just by ripping out the backbone.

Except when I'm doing this, I'm the fish.

Sometimes I feel like someone has reached in and pulled out my backbone, and I know, I just _know _that I'll never be able to stand again.

But then I know the cure. I know how to make myself get up in the mornings. I make myself hard, and cold. I make myself into titanium. Everything is concrete, and I tell myself I'll never have a soft emotion.

You don't need a backbone if you settle for a hard enough exoskeleton.

I remake myself out stone, at least three or four times a week.

Maybe I'll go into the police force.

It was very dark now, and I felt something ticking behind my chest, like an imp tapping his finger against my ribs and sternum—wanting out. The creature half spread its wings, and shifted around, anxious for something. I rose for the first time in hours, and then went to the window. It was big, almost ceiling to floor, and there was a ledge that had been transformed into a miniature flowerbed. The outcropping extended about two feet, and beyond that was a twelve story drop.

The pads of my fingers lightly pressed on the windowpane, and my breath fogged the glass. The imp was squirming, pushing my organs out of the way. I needed to be out there. I needed to be out of safety. I needed to plunge into that darkness and feel it washing over me. The devil inside agreed.

"Can't play tonight though," I mumbled. "Haven't got a costume, or supplies." Which raised the question—what would my costume be? What about a cute little stage name? Most importantly, where would I get supplies? How would I design them? Where would I get the technology? I didn't even think about the condition of my body (specifically the lower portion). It was as if none of it existed—there was no feeling, and no pain.

The imp whispered in one ear; Gotham whispered in the other, and both with the same answer.

Steal it.

An image flashed in my mind of Daniel's apartment—his bedroom. The attention of it swerved to the closet.

_But how do I get in?_

It came to me in a second, and I didn't bother questioning whatever force placed the solution there.

_You'll need help._

Indeed.

- - -

My stomach was clenched, wrought with anticipation, as I made my way down the nastiest, most hostile street in the upper-east section of Gotham, not exactly sure who it was I was looking for. I felt alone in my head now—there were no demons clawing at my insides for the time being; the previous one having been placated knowing that I was listening.

I don't know why I choose to come here, but in saying that, I don't think I had much of a choice at all. This place was about as far from my home as I was from Daniel's. Except this area was more or less east from my home, and Daniel was positioned southwest of it.

I was dressed nice enough to not look like a prostitute, but my skirt could easily be seen as marking me for prey. I kept my head down, watched the concrete as I walked, seemingly with direction, but unfocused. The only thing that might have thrown off attackers were the sunglasses I had chosen to wear.

I made sure that I kept along the same side of the street if I saw any possibly threatening characters. It didn't take long before I had the attention of three men, each looking tough, wiry, and in their prime (though a lean and mangy prime it was). When I was sure they were following, I turned down an alley. The only thing really down it was a few back doors, overflowing dumpsters, and loose newspapers. The thin sheets of gray paper blew and rustled, sticking to the sides of buildings in some places. If the hungry hyena-bred men behind me had been any less dim, they might have asked themselves why a lone woman would walk down an alley, a deserted alley. But, they were already tasting blood and fear and control—so easily drawn in because I was making it easy on them.

I let them take hold of me, and make a scene out of it. Every time one of them moved, I saw five different ways to destroy him, and had to remain passive. Instead I screamed and clawed like a cornered cat, but I never struck out. At least, _never_ with any amount of force, just a few feeble shoves and punches. One ripped my purse away, busied himself with that. Another was fumbling with the zipper of his pants, but was having trouble keeping his hand cupped against my mouth. I could have snapped his wrist and snagged his crouch with the teeth of the zipper both in one beat.

The third man was the only one that had me slightly worried. He wasn't a particularly tall guy, or exceptionally well-built, but the malevolence in his eyes would have made me sick to my stomach if I wasn't so acutely aware of my ability to smash his face into the concrete. His blonde hair was shaved very close to his head, and the scars below his right eye told me that he'd had the shit beaten out of him before—possibly against these brick buildings. Then he had a gun beside my temple, and so focused on _letting them win_ I realized that the situation had taken a big step from in-control to spiraling away from it.

I hadn't accounted for guns.

Why the fuck hadn't I even thought about that?

_You're such a fucking amateur._

And then number two had his cock out, and all I could do was grit my teeth and think about how bad this was getting. I tried to remind myself what I had been looking for, _who_ it was that I thought I had been looking for. Then I made sure to tell myself once more: I didn't know. I only came because of a hunch.

I came because I thought the goddamn city had told me to.

How was that for a plan?

_Well, I'd rather die than-_

But then there was a shadow moving very fast, and I had time to throw myself to the ground before the gunshot. In the process of doing this, I grabbed number two by the collar, and pulled him forward. My ears rang as Mr. Gun fired where my head had been a second before. Blood splashed down over me.

In pulling Number Two forward, what I instinctively knew was going to happen, did. His buddy, Mr. Gun, blew off half of his head. The body of a man, younger than me, fell down, jerking and twitching as his brain tried desperately to contact its other half. I blinked behind my glasses. A rush of something like horror came over me, and then a dead, dead cold. So the guy who was intent on raping me was dead. So I had purposefully pulled him into the line of fire, knowing what would happen.

So what?

And then I heard gurgling and spluttering behind me, and the sound of something wet dripping down onto paper. Quickly standing and backing away, I saw the crossbow bolt that had neatly lodged itself in Mr. Gun's throat. His mean little blue eyes clouded, as he tried very hard to lift his arms—he too fell over, but it was obvious that he was going to take a bit longer to die than the unfortunate Number Two. Trying to draw in gulps of air, he was only drinking his own blood. And when he began to cough violently, I knew that he was drowning. In his own blood.

I stood there. Dead cold.

Number Three had taken the hint, and was half-stumbling, half-running away. The shadow dropped down beside me, and I turned—a good deal of blood on my clothes.

"So, why does a young woman in Gotham walk down the street alone at night, and then knowing she is being followed, make her way into an empty alley?" Her voice was smooth and strong. This woman stood easily nine inches over my head, and probably had at least thirty pounds on me. Her outfit was black and purple, and I saw her holding the crossbow at her side. For the life of me, I couldn't remember her name, knowing that I knew it once.

"To make friends." I could see the motion of her eyebrows raising behind the mask.

"Is that so. Well then, I think you'll be disappointed. If you came looking for one of the Ba-" Her voice was so incredibly _loathsome_ that I had to laugh. When I did laugh, she stopped speaking—indignant, but at the same time, unable to walk away.

"I came here looking for _you._ I was wondering if you were interested in an… ally, of sorts." That sounded awfully weak, even to my ears. But I had a bargaining chip that I knew she wouldn't be able to refuse. Her shoulders tensed up, and she leaned forward, lips curling back in anger. She must not have liked the idea of being led here, and not being one step ahead of the game. Too bad.

"Look, I don't kno-" Sirens began to wail in the distance. The woman paused, and charged right on. "I don't know who you think you are, but I'm not-" They were louder now, and her little speech was faltering. Still, she tried to continue, but with less gusto. "I'm not exactly known around Gotham for playing nice, so if you don't want me to-" They were too near to pass off now. "Come on," she growled, and took a line of cable out of her belt. The piece at the end shot out, arching impossibly high, and catching against the rooftop of a building. The line yanked forward, and she grabbed me by the arm—probably pleased to feel like she had power over the situation.

In a moment we were up and over the roof, and moving west—crossing from rooftop to rooftop with what struck me as surprising ease: it was as if you could get anywhere in this area of Gotham, just from traveling over the rooftops, which more often than not overlapped each other. We had been moving for a decent period of time before the woman ahead of me halted suddenly, and spun around to glare at me.

"So, what is it that you think you're getting from me?"

"Not much, actually. Some support. Most importantly, a bit of training." I nodded my head towards her belt. "Learning to use a jumpline would be nice. Some tips."

"I work alone, but you know, _Batman_ seems to be hiring every other week, so maybe you should look around for _him._" A particularly smug smiled came to her lips. "But I don't think he'd like to take you in, after that stunt you pulled back there—getting that guy sho-"

"I know who Batman _is_, so I don't need any of this 'they won't pick me for their team' bullshit from you, thanks." She was stopped cold hearing that. It was clear that she wasn't certain whether to believe me or not. Either way, she realized how bold of a thing it was to say.

"What that supposed to mean? That you know who Batman is?"

"It means what I said." She blinked, and after a moment I added, "Not that I came here to tell you, and not that I will _ever_ tell you." Her dark eyes narrowed; it was clear that she disliked not having the upper hand. The fact that she had chosen to believe me that I knew Batman's identity didn't help.

"So tell me, why should I help you, if you aren't going to tell me? What incentive would I have to train you, and whatever else it is you want?" Long dark tendrils of her hair wrapped around her shoulders, billowing with the light, city-stink breeze. I smiled, and centered my weight. With or without psychic training, I knew how to pitch a deal.

"Because I have two things you want." Behind my sunglasses I saw her loosen up, prepared to hear what I had to offer. Good. "First, you're alone. You want companionship." She tensed again, and I raised an eyebrow. Opening her mouth, I cut her off before she could rebut. "Please, we're both adults. This is a tough area and _everybody_ needs a friend _once_ in a while. You like it that you don't depend on anyone–which I don't blame you for. It's respectable." The woman in front of me preened a bit, somewhat satiated that someone she didn't know existed admired her work. "But if there is no need to be alone, and a competent, capable ally presents him—or in this case—herself, why continue a with a solo flight? After all, Batman has _numerous_ allies, which expand his control of this city. Gotham isn't run just by Her favorite son, but rather by his use of allies, more often than not. Of course, state-or-the-art technology doesn't exactly hinder the cause either. Don't you agree?"

"So, you want to be an ally. Well, I guess I could use my own sidekick, my own Rob-"

"Never a sidekick. I'm not going to follow you around to pick locks for you. I'm offering an alliance. Think about what that means."

We stood there, facing each other off, both more similar than we knew. After a frozen moment of watching each other impassively try to stare down the other, I swear I saw the faintest twinge of a smile hooking the corner of her mouth. She had seen the resemblance.

"There was another thing?"

"Yes. The second term—you train me, give me some room to run, be there to bounce ideas off of, and you get equipment."

"What kind of equipment?" But I could see the ambition shining in her eyes—hoping and simultaneously telling herself not to hope. I drew on the moment of power for a second, feeling that I had all the suspense built inside me as an executioner with an axe. Though I don't suppose they experienced such giddy glee from their work.

"The kind that comes out of the Batcave."

Knowing that I wasn't lying, she threw back her hair over her shoulder, and laughed. It wasn't a very free laugh—tied down at the corners with the weight of vindictive triumph. Holding out a gloved hand, she bared her teeth in a fierce grin.

I met her shake.

"Welcome to the Gotham vigilante ring, …" She paused, waiting for me to fill in my name for her: a stage name, a name that I could use to fight by, and eventually, to kill by.

"Erinye." It came out easily through my lips, and rung true. I hadn't given any thought to the name (other than admitting that I needed one), so I was almost surprised to not find myself stuttering around for one.

"Nice to meet you. I'm the Huntress."


End file.
